


Would You Suffer My Reality?

by dearjoanwallace



Category: Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears (Musician), Red Hot Chili Peppers (Band)
Genre: Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 08:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 28,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10589889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearjoanwallace/pseuds/dearjoanwallace
Summary: Anthony becomes trapped in a cosmic game and gains an appreciation for bubble-gum pop. Peppered with sundry musical guest appearances. (RHCP chapter fic w/ BSB in a supporting role)





	1. "When It's Over..."

**Author's Note:**

> Would You Suffer My Reality?  
> By Kellyanne Lynch  
> 15 June 2001, 1:55 AM - 25 September 2001, 11:39 PM
> 
> Trivia: The original name of this story was actually "Twismented". Other names that I considered were "When It's Over", "Parallel Universe", "Planet Of The Apes", "Californication", "Away & Anywhere", "Otherside", and "Aquarius". I thought of the last three today (9/25), as well as the title I'm using, which is a quote from one of the extended versions of the song "Long Day" by matchbox twenty.
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is a product of my twismented imagination, i.e. it isn't based on a crumb of reality. It is for entertainment purposes. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Anthony Kiedis, John Frusciante, Michael "Flea" Balzary, and Chad Smith are all copyrighted... wait, I don't think the members of the band are actually copyrighted, but you know what I mean. They belong to themselves. Any other famous entities and/or individuals mentioned in this fanfic are also copyrighted and/or own themselves. I do not know any of them. I have never even seen any of them in real life, except for Dave Navarro. I do not do any of their laundries nor mow their lawns. I am a fan writing fanFICTION. If any side characters seem familiar though are not somebody famous, it's purely coincidental. I just made up those guys.
> 
> Summary: Anthony becomes trapped in a cosmic game and gains an appreciation for bubble-gum pop.
> 
> Rating: PG-13
> 
> * Please email with questions, comments, theories, complaints, words of wisdom, or tips on how to meet the Chili Peppers (hee!)
> 
> ***** PEPPER POWER!!! *****

Flames crackled and danced, consuming the branches and twigs underfoot. The flares leapt into the speckled night sky, scattering glowing embers in its wake. In the distance, an owl hoo-hooed. And, by the fire, a figure glanced over his shoulder. The bird hushed, and crickets chirped.

Anthony Kiedis turned back to the fire. He shifted on the log where he sat. The back of his bare legs brushed against the bark. He leaned over, shocks of his blond streaked brown hair dangling perpendicular to the ground. Rotating his legs, Anthony found thin white lines running parallel across his calves. He scowled.

He grabbed a stick from the ground and dug it into the dirt, his dark eyes studying his work. Dust scattered around the indentation, some smudging the arches of his gray hiking boots. He threw the stick into the surrounding woods and sighed.

Anthony raised his head. Frosty air swept across his neck, and he shivered. He pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his head and tucked his hands inside the front pocket. His knuckles brushed across the cottony lining as he rubbed his hands together.

He glanced to his right, where John Frusciante sat on the ground, his legs splayed before him in a forty-five degree angle. He cradled an acoustic guitar in his hands, nestled it on his right knee. His left hand clutched the guitar's neck, his right one flattened across its body. John's open flannel shirt rippled in the frigid night winds, and his dark shaggy hair wafted with it. Goosebumps speckled his flesh, beneath a thin layer of dark brown body hair. Fixating his sights on the woodpile beneath the flames, John watched as the fire greedily consumed its life force. Anthony stared at his friend's eyes before shifting his attention to the man across the way.

Cross armed and lounging on a log, Chad Smith heaved a sigh. His fingernails picked at the hem of his black button up's shirt tail. Slate toned eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed, he glared at the hemline. His index finger and thumb closed around a loose piece of thread and pulled. A stitch unraveled, the thread catching on itself before more could come undone. Chad picked at it. It caved, and a second stitch slipped loose. While working at another stitch, Chad dropped the shirt tail with a huff. He slipped his chin in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes.

Anthony turned to his left, his eyes falling into baby blues. Flea raised his eyebrows at his friend and scratched his flannelled chest. Anthony gazed deep into Flea's eyes as his friend stared back. He could not read his friend's thoughts. He couldn't read his thoughts. But, while looking into Flea's eyes, Anthony's heart stung, and sadness wracked his soul. He felt defeated.

"So what are we going to do now?" Chad's voice broke the midnight air. Flea jumped in his seat on a person-sized log, and he and Anthony broke eye contact to glance at Chad.

"We can't do anything yet," Anthony spoke, his tongue sticking to his palate with every syllable. "They haven't made their final decision."

"Their final..." Chad thrust his foot into the dirt. Particles flew into the fire and hissed. Dust clouded at his feet. He shook his head. "I'm sick of all this sh**! I'd rather they just drop us and get it over with!"

"They're not necessarily dropping us from the label," Anthony replied, biting his lower lip. "Just because our new album's not selling..."

"We've been a band for almost twenty years," Flea's hoarse voice murmured with a sigh. "To them, and to a lot of people now, we're just a group of old men." Gazing at Anthony with watery eyes, he nodded. "They're dropping us from the label."

Anthony sighed. He gazed into the sky, at the starts that had greeted him night after night, since he was a newborn. They had seen him grow, had seen him through every turn in his life. They saw him develop into the success that he was today...

Or, rather, yesterday. Now, Anthony guessed with a sigh, they would see him fade into obscurity.

"Let's just go to bed," Chad huffed. He pulled a bucket of water from behind his back and dumped into over the fire. The flames crackled, sizzled, and hissed as they perished. Chad separated the soaking charcoaled branches with a stick, then retreated to his sleeping bag.

Anthony slipped into his sleeping bag. Grabbing his backpack, he dragged it toward himself and opened it. He rummaged through its contents until his fingers wrapped around a metal coil. He drew the journal from his bag. He stared at the dark blue cover, and ran his fingers down the coil, until he opened it to a blank page. And took a pen to it.

_How can you love_  
something that's failed  
Something that's unraveled  
a mystery unveiled 

A salty drop of water slid down the page, dampening and blurring the words. Anthony swiped his fingertips across his cheekbones and added:

_Fallen star_  
Fallen star  
Did you get to touch the sky?  
Did planets revolve around your face  
Did you ever really fly?  
Where are you now?  
Does anybody care?  
Does anybody love a fallen star? 

He slammed the journal shut, thrust it into his bag, and zipped it inside. Then laid back. Staring up at the stars, he whispered, "I wish they didn't see us the way they do. I wish they respected us." He turned on his side and pulled the sleeping bag up over his head.

The stars twinkled over him, one outshining the rest. It intensified in brightness and grew. In the blink of an eye, it blew up twice the size of the moon. Then waned. Light as lightening flashed across the sky.

Anthony awoke in a canopy bed.


	2. Rude Awakenings

"Mmm..."

Anthony rolled over, the corner of a silken sheet wrapped tight within his fingers. His eyelids fluttered open, his sights focusing on the white fabric hanging in front of his face. Furrowing his eyebrows, he bolted upright in bed. He turned from left to right, finding the sheer material on either side.

"What the hell...," he muttered to himself. He thrust his arms into a parting of the fabric. Beyond the bed, a hardwood floor glistened in sunbeams sparkling from the window to his left. The window was open, a breeze whispering through the space, wafting ivory silken curtains into the air like free-spirited kites. A cushy white armchair faced the window, a cherry wood ottoman a pace in front of it. A bird's chirping outside spilled into the room with the zephyrs.

Directly before Anthony stood a white door, its polyurethane lacquer reflecting blinding sunshine back at him. He squinted and glanced to his right, his dark eyes opened full upon a cherry wood wash basin and mirror hanging over it.

Anthony slipped off the bed; his bare feet padded along the cold floor beneath. His toes soon swept across the edge of a bathmat, and he stepped onto it. Yawning, he turned on the water in the porcelain sink. Leaning into the basin, Anthony splashed water onto his face. It washed over his features, and a drop clung to the tip of his nose as he straightened. He picked up a small box and opened it. And pulled out a travel sized bar of soap. He tossed the box to the side. Holding the soap in his hands, he rubbed them together. Lather squished out between his fingers, sliding out from between his pinky fingers and dribbling into the sink. He raised his head to look into the mirror...

And dropped the bar of soap. He wiped his sudsy hands on his boxers and drew his hands to his face. The skin over his cheekbones was tight, the corners of his eyes smooth. His fingers trailed down to his jaw. No creasing there either.

His sights traveled to his arms, his eyes widening. He ran a hand across his right bicep, across the face of the Native American tattooed to the flesh. He slipped his hand down his arm, down his bare skin.

His eyes bulged in their sockets as he swept his other hand down his left arm, where another Native American face had been etched.

"What the f***!"

"Mr. Kiedis! Please!" a voice shot from the door. "Such language!"

Anthony whirled around. His hands balled into fists, and he stepped backwards, toward the canopy bed. Raising his fists, he breathed, "What's going on?"

The man at the door scratched his sandy haired head. He stood in a conservative black suit. Furrowing his thick eyebrows, he said, "you asked me to come by in time to wake you for your breakfast with your bandmates."

"My... okay. Just need a second." Anthony glanced around him and found suitcases and a walk-in closet behind him, to the left of the bed. Wandering toward it, he felt breath at the back of his neck. He turned. The blond stranger stood a pace behind him, a full head taller than Anthony. "What are you doing" he eyed the individual.

"Why, getting you dressed, Mr. Kiedis."

"Hell no!" Anthony's eyes nearly fell out of his head. "Please wait for me outside the room."

Shrugging, the man left. As soon as the door clicked shut, Anthony sighed. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Exhaling, he turned to the closet. He opened his eyes and the closet doors. Lining either side of Anthony were at least three dozen suits. He grabbed the closest one to his left and took its hanger off the bar overhead. He cringed at the suit, at its gray with dark gray weave, at the scratchy feel of its collar against his hand, at the cream colour turtleneck peeking out from inside its vest. He thrust it back onto the bar before its hideous style could leave any damage. His fingers wrapped around the sleeve of another suit. Pushing all articles further down the line aside, he glanced over this new selection. Dark blue, vinyl feel jacket, purple shirt beneath it...

With ruffles?

Anthony dropped to his knees beside the three suitcases just outside the closet. He unzipped one and rummaged around inside it. His hands went over only underwear. He grabbed the next bag and slid his hand inside. His fingers brushed against a cold, smooth surface and wrapped around its wooden frame. He pulled it out and found himself staring at a picture of himself, smiling, with a bright eyed, beautiful blond on his shoulder. His eyes flashed with recognition, and he dropped the picture.

He grabbed a white suit shirt and a pair of black dress pants from the closet. Threw on the shirt, jumped into the pants, slid his feet into the first pair of shoes he found. He buttoned his shirt as he dashed for the door.

The sandy haired man in the hallway eyed Anthony up and down, raising a scrupulous brow. "Sir..."

"Please don't call me that," Anthony murmured as he slipped the button at his collarbone through its loop. He raised his head, and saw the man staring at him. "Where's my band?"

The man straightened his spine and turned away from Anthony, toward a set of elevators at the end of the hallway. "Right this way, s... eh, Mr. Kiedis."

"Anthony."

The suited gentleman led Anthony down the hallway and took a left. They met with closed doors where a "reserved" sign hung. The man swung open a door and held it as Anthony passed. Round tables dotted the room inside, hundreds of them, decked out in white cloths and unlit candles beneath bulbous glass. Anthony ran his hands across the fabric as he passed them. He sauntered toward the front of the room, toward the only occupied table. Throwing his head back, his eyes got lost in the expanse of space overhead. Murals of infant cherubs and swirls of gold stretched across the ceiling, around a chandelier his height and several times his width. He stared at it, and walked into a chair. Its white wooden backing jammed into his stomach.

"Uh!" Anthony exclaimed, leaning over the chair. He stepped back and rubbed at his midsection. "F***, that hurt!"

He glanced at the table. All eyes were now upon him, wide and shocked. Anthony approached them, a smile sweeping across his face as his eyes met with a familiar pair of baby blues. "You are not going to believe what kind of a f***ed up morning I've had..."

"Anthony, please!" a voice shot from across the table. The man seated there closed his cerulean eyes and clasped his hands over his ears. He shook his head, wisps of sunshine bobbing along with him. "What's with the swearing this morning?"

Anthony stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the speaker, who opened his eyes and lowered his hands. The man looked up at him with a puppy-dog stare, his eyebrows slanted upward toward his long, narrow nose. His lips were closed, held tightly together. He straightened his yellow tie and the lapels of his white suit shirt and black sports jacket.

"Hey," Anthony wagged a finger at him. "Aren't you a Backstreet Boy?"

The man laughed. "What in the world is a Backstreet Boy? Sounds ridiculous anyway! Have a seat!"

Anthony glanced around the table. The familiar baby blue eyes were smiling, their owner chuckling. Beside him, a man with thick eyebrows, a moustache, and a goatee leaned over his plate, laughing into it. His shoulder length jet black hair spilled over his face. To his left sat a dark haired man with weary eyes, who managed to crack a smile. He stared at the fried egg, bacon, and syrup smeared pancake stack on his plate. Anthony slid into the seat beside him, sights lingering. "Hey, John! Why'd you order all that grease?" he smirked.

John shook his head and sighed. "I just, I just ordered something. I don't know." His eyes darted around the room.

"You feeling okay, buddy?" Anthony laid a hand on John's forearm. John pulled back his arm and stared at him. He stared back, studying John's jaw, its form narrow and defined. John's full lips stood out prominently against the skin held taunt across his face. Anthony looked him in the eye, then glanced at the corners. The smooth corners.

"Swan!"

Anthony glanced across the table at the goateed man. The man gestured to Anthony's left, where a waiter stood. "Order something quick; we don't have much time."

"Don't rush him, Kevin!" the owner of the baby blues smiled. "He just got here!"

Anthony turned to the waiter. "Can I just get a plate of fresh fruit please?"

The waiter bowed and walked away.

Picking up his water, Anthony looked around the table. "Where's Chad?" he asked, and took a sip.

"Where's who?" Baby blue eyes questioned.

Anthony laughed as he set down his water. "Come on, Flea!" he replied. "I'm getting a little tired of..." Anthony trailed off, realizing that everyone was staring at him.

"What did he call you?" the blond haired runt turned to Flea, who shook his head.

"That was a nickname I had years ago," he smiled, still watching Anthony, who bolted to his feet.

"I am serious!" Pointing to the blond, he exclaimed, "Brian! That's your name! And you ARE a Backstreet Boy! And so are you!" He pointed to Kevin, then crossed his arms. Turning to John, he asked, "Do you know where Chad is?"

John stared at his food. "I don't even know anybody named Chad."

"He's in our band?" Anthony looked to Flea, observing his black suit shirt and red and black marble tie. Flea's skin, as well, was uncreased, his chin freshly shaven, dark brown hair neatly trimmed.

"Please just sit down, Anthony," Flea pleaded. The waiter stared at Anthony as he set a fruit dish before him. Anthony sat down, took up an apple slice, and nibbled at it. "This is really starting to piss me off," he muttered.

Brian Littrell shook his head, grinning as he drank some orange juice. Lowering the glass, he asked, "So, Anthony, what exactly is a Backstreet Boy? Is this something good, something bad? And why am I and Kevin Backstreet Boys? Is it another name for redneck or hick or something?"

"Well I don't particularly go for your music," Anthony bit into a piece of banana. "But I wouldn't say that being a Backstreet Boy is bad." He swallowed some water. "I'd say it's neutral."

A smile played across Brian's face. "Then can I call you a Backstreet Boy?"

Anthony laughed, and popped a raisin into his mouth. "I'm a Chili Pepper though."

"So am I!"


	3. "Backstreet's Back"

Anthony jumped out of his seat and took several paces back, away from the table. His eyes bulging, his pulse racing. His underarms were dampening.

"Flea? John?" he glanced at each man as he spoke the names. "I'd like to talk to you guys a minute."

The two got to their feet and followed Anthony across the room. He turned to them, laying one hand on Flea's shoulder, the other hand on John's. Narrowing his eyes at each, he murmured, "What are those two really doing here?"

"Anthony!" Flea exclaimed, shaking his head. "What has gotten into you today?"

"What has gotten into me?" Anthony started rolling the sleeve of his suit shirt. Mid-forearm, he unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it off. He held his arms in front of them. "I woke up this morning missing most of my f***ing tattoos!"

"What are you talking about?" Flea smirked. "You only HAVE two!"

Anthony stared at him. Shaking his head, he slipped back into his shirt. "And why the hell do we look so young?" Heat and blood rushed into Anthony's head. He wobbled where he stood and held a hand to his temple. His vision blurred but, with a blink, revived.

Flea put a hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. "Maybe you should go lie down. You don't have to go with us to the radio station. Just rest up for tonight, okay?"

Furrowing his eyebrows, Anthony lowered his hand from his head. "Why? What's tonight?" Anthony glanced at John, watched him as he shuffled where he stood, staring down at his feet, his hands planted in the pockets of his dark dress pants. The coat tails of his jacket covered his forearms.

"The Grammies?" Flea sighed. He shook his head and slid his hand down to Anthony's shoulder blade. "You need some sleep."

Flea guided Anthony toward the door. Glancing over his shoulder, Anthony watched as John wandered back to the table and slid into his seat beside Kevin Richardson. John picked up his fork and resumed picking at his food.

Anthony and Flea stepped out of the dining room, into the hotel corridor.

"What's with John?" Anthony questioned, padding down the teal carpet at Flea's side.

"John's just moody," Flea muttered. His face scrunched into a scowl. "But isn't he always?"

They approached Anthony's room, and Flea slipped a key card into the lock. Red light to green.

BEEP!

Flea pushed the door open.

"Flea, seriously man," Anthony grabbed his friend's arm. Flea stopped, sighed, and rolled his eyes. He turned to face Anthony, whose large and teary eyes gazed back at him. "I need to know what's going on..."

"Damn it, Anthony!" Flea shouted, stepping back. "First off, I don't know what it is with this 'Flea' sh**! You're giving me the creeps! Stop calling me that! And second, I am sick and tired of you not knowing what's going on! Pull yourself together! Get some sleep! You had better be ready to perform tonight! We're not f***ing this up like we did at the AMAs!"

Flea stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Its pow echoed in Anthony's brain as he stared at the door, at its hideously shiny paint. He observed his breath, as he drew air in and out of his lungs.

He dropped to his knees beside his luggage, his hands wrapping around the middle bag. He unzipped it and reached inside. He pulled out the framed photo, a comb, a handful of pens. These items clattered to the floor as he grabbed a blue notebook. He opened it to the first page.

_Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner. Sometimes I feel my only friend is the city of angels. Lonely as I am, together we cry..._

He turned the page.

_I've got a soul that can't sleep at night, when something's just not right..._

His fingertips picked at the corner of the notebook page and slid down the other side. Again, he turned the page.

_It started when we were little kids. We were free spirits tormented by our hands which were given to us by our parents._

He flipped through the pages, focusing on words before they blurred as they passed.

_Music is my aeroplane..._

_If you see me getting high, knock me down..._

_How long will I slide?.._

_My friends are so depressed..._

_Psychic spies from China try to steal your mind's elation..._

_CALIFORNICATION_

He closed the notebook and set it aside. His hands dove into the bag again, his fingers brushing against gritty plastic. He slipped a thumb beneath the skinny object, pinched it, and withdrew it from the bag.

A computer disk.

Laying it aside, he glanced at the third piece of luggage. The brown leather bag stood upright, its handles flopped to either side. Between the two brass clasps holding the straps lay a flap, which latched into a buckle at the bottom of the bag. Anthony undid the buckle and threw back the flap. He pulled out a laptop computer. In a side compartment, he found a phone chord. He clicked it into the modem's slot, the other end into the phone jack. He plugged the computer into the power socket beside the jack. Flipped open the computer, hit the on switch, shifted to a sitting position. His legs extended in front of him, and he rested the laptop on his quadriceps.

The screen lit up. White dot matrix text sprawled across it, then faded out before Windows ME's logo appeared against a white background.

Anthony double clicked on "America Online" as soon as the icon appeared. He sighed with a smile when he saw the password was preset.

Dial-up. Crinkly static. Computer crunching. And he was online.

He clicked on the URL space, and his fingers raced across the keyboard. Letter by letter, the URL appeared in the space: www.redhotchilipeppers.com. Anthony sat back and waited. The navigation window turned red, and a familiar black asterisk painted itself onto the screen. It disappeared and resketched itself. Smiling at the asterisk, Anthony ran the mouse pointer over it and clicked.

A banner appeared first across the screen. Anthony's mouth dropped open as he stared at it, as head shots of him with Flea, John, Brian Littrell, and Kevin Richardson grinned back at him. Beneath the picture read "Red Hot Chili Peppers: Buy their new album, Black And Blue, featuring "The Call" and "Shape Of My Heart".

Anthony's eyes widened as they stared at the print.

"Sh**!" he whispered. "We ARE the Backstreet Boys!"


	4. Band History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: I didn't want to put this on the first page since it would spoil the story. The beginning history of the band is from the book Behind The Sun, almost word for word. The end "history" consists of altered excerpts from the book Who Are These People? : Pop Music Superstars, from the section about the Backstreet Boys.

Anthony leaned against the wall space by the phone jack and outlet as he clicked the side icon "Band History". Black print appeared across a red page:

"Before they were the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Anthony Kiedis, Michael Balzary, Hillel Slovak, and Jack Irons were four youths attending Fairfax High School in Los Angeles, California. Michael, who was then known as "Flea"..."

Anthony furrowed his eyebrows. "Was THEN known as Flea?" he whispered to himself.

"... who was then known as "Flea", was already friends with Hillel and Jack when he met Anthony. He was holding a kid in a headlock, and Anthony came to the rescue..."

Chuckling to himself, Anthony leaned his back against the wall.

"Anthony and Michael later bonded when they sat next to each other in driver's ed. Michael's background was in jazz. His stepfather played the trumpet, an instrument in which Michael became accomplished. Anthony had been a child actor, born in Michigan but living with his father, a struggling actor, in LA.

"Hillel taught Michael to play bass at 16, and Michael soon after joined the band 'Fear'. Hillel and Jack, at the time, belonged to the band 'What Is This'. Anthony was a fan of his friends' music but wasn't involved in a band yet. He wrote poetry and read it before his friends' performances, under the name "Swan". In a dive bar on the LA Sunset Strip, Anthony joined his friends onstage. The four performed "Out in LA", and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were born. Almost immediately, 'What Is This' and the RHCP were offered record deals. Hillel and Jack completed their obligations to 'What Is This', then reunited soon after with the RHCP.

Anthony scrolled down the page, and a black and white picture of four boys inched into view along the right side. Once it fully rolled into sight, Anthony stared at it. A crazy-haired boy smiled at the text beside him, decked out in a funky grey and white unbuttoned shirt. Anthony reached for the computer screen, running his index finger down the side of the boy's face, neck and chest.

"Hillel," he breathed, as his other fingers slid onto the page. His middle finger landed on another boy's long light hair, his ring finger on the boy's tanned bicep. The boy stood behind Hillel Slovak, silken strands masking his left eye. Anthony stared at his own features on the boy's face, the full lips curved into a goofy smile, broad nose, shadowed eyes. His eyes drifted to the bicep beneath his ring finger, toned and bare. Completely bare.

Anthony's pinky finger rested upon the bronzed chest of a third boy. Again, skin bare. Anthony looked upon the boy's face, at the pouting lips and eyes staring downward. Curls trickles out from beneath a fuzzy brimmed hat. The fourth figure stood solemnly and staring ahead.

Lowering his hand from the screen, Anthony shifted his attention to the text.

"Early works of the RHCP were a mixture of rap, funk, and trash, very different from their current works..."

"No, it's not!" Anthony snorted.

"In 1983, they played at a Hollywood strip bar called the Kit Kat Club, the infamous performance where they first played wearing nothing but tube socks. Performances following were equally outrageous.

"At the same time, heroin was taking control of the band. At fourteen, Anthony snorted a line of heroin by accident. He thought it was cocaine. By 1985, dope began driving the band apart. During Freaky Styley, Hillel was secretly using regularly..."

Anthony touched his fingers to his mouth, running them across his smooth lower lip. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"The RHCP went on tour in Europe in 1988, and Anthony and Hillel agreed to help each other steer clear of heroin. When the guys came home from touring, they parted ways for a few weeks. Away from the support of his friends and family, Hillel started using again..."

Anthony's stomach clenched, and he swallowed hard.

"He overdosed between the last hours of June 24th and early morning June 25th..."

A sigh escaped Anthony's lips. Clenching his eyes shut, he turned away from the screen. He sat silently a moment before turning back to the computer.

"After Hillel's death, Jack wanted to quit. But the three decided that they still had untapped creativity. They regrouped..."

"What?" Anthony's back stiffened.

"... regrouped and recruited guitar player John Frusciante, their biggest fan. They toured for two years with little success. Each venue drew in smaller crowds, and they were dropped from their EMI label..."

"'the hell is going on?" Anthony muttered. He scrolled down, revealing a picture of himself, with his arm around a stout middle aged man, to the left of the screen. Anthony's eyes frantically scanned the text.

"The four went their separate ways.

"They were out of contact with one another until the fall of 1990, when Anthony called his former bandmates with the news that they had attracted the attention of pop-band star-maker Louis Pearlman..."

"I did WHAT?"

"Pearlman envisioned the band's comeback with a different sound and image. Anthony, Michael, and John accepted. Pearlman introduced them to musicians Brian Littrell and Kevin Richardson. With the addition of the Kentucky cousins, the band was reborn..."

Heaving a sigh, Anthony shook his head. "Yeah, into the Backstreet Boys! What the f***!"

"The RHCP's image change required their giving up the rock and roll lifestyle. Over the next couple years, they gave up drugs completely and took on the image of the all American wholesome boy band that they are today..."

"'All American wholesome boy band'?!" Anthony exclaimed, his eyes widening. "Sh**! Does that mean we're pansies?"

"Their change in sound was an easier process. John had already quit playing guitar..."

Furrowing his eyebrows, Anthony rubbed his chin. "John gave up playing guitar?" he whispered and shook his head.

"... and the others were eager to work on their new vocal-heavy sound.

"Having perfected the band's harmony, the RHCP set out to reestablish their fan base. Their earlier performances as a quintet included appearances at Sea World, high school functions, and local shopping malls. Soon they had gained an enthusiastic local following and signed with Jive Records. They released a single in 1993 called "We've Got It Goin' On"..."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Anthony muttered, "You have got to be kidding."

"... which was successful in Germany, but fizzled in the United States where alternative and grunge were starting to take hold of the charts.

"Off the band went to tour Europe, Asia, and Canada, becoming huge pop stars. They released two international hit albums before finding fame on their home turf. Their 1996 comeback performance at the Radio Music Awards wowed the nation, where they played "Quit Playing Games (With My Heart))"..."

"A Backstreet Boys song," Anthony commented.

"... which became their first domestic hit single.

"'Millennium' was released in 1999. Many of its singles went on to be #1 hits. Dubbed by _Entertainment Magazine_ as "the best boy band in the country", the Red Hot Chili Peppers' tunes..."

Grimacing, Anthony mumbled, "I NEVER thought I'd see 'Chili Peppers' and 'boy band' in the same sentence."

"... the Red Hot Chili Peppers' tunes are staples on pop stations across the country. And, with this year's release of Black And Blue having already gone platinum, the Chili Peppers continue to dazzle millions."

Anthony scrolled down, hitting the bottom of the page. Across it spanned the words "The boys won a Radio Music Award (being displayed proudly by Anthony) at a ceremony held in Las Vegas in November 2000." Beneath the text stood "the Chili Peppers". Brian Littrell stooped in the left hand corner of the picture, sporting a weary smile. He wore a gray overcoat over a tawny T-shirt. An arm hung over his shoulders, Michael Balzary's arm. The Chili Pepper gave the camera a broad grin. His white suit shirt was open, revealing a fitted black T-shirt beneath. Michael's left arm hid behind Anthony's back.

"What the hell am I wearing?" Anthony muttered, staring at his photo self's outfit, an ivory turtleneck sweater, khakis, and a wide white belt with an enormous ebony star buckle. Fuzzy arms stretched forward, hands supporting the base of the award. In the picture, Anthony's head was cocked to the left, toward a hand sticking out over his shoulder. The hand belonged to Kevin Richardson. Long, dark bands hung over Kevin's left eye, his right squinting at the camera. His leather jacket covered a faded red shirt. A smile stretched across the width of his jaw. Off to the far right slouched John Frusciante, hair long and framing either side of his head. Anthony stared at John's face, at the shadowed eyes, at the full lips curved into a frown. He leaned closer to the screen, brows furrowed as he stared into the image of John's eyes. And sighed. Even looking at a photo, Anthony could tell that his friend wasn't all there.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Hey, Ant?" a soft, feminine voice called from outside the hotel room. He set the laptop down on the floor beside him. Anthony looked to the door. Bleached blond strands hung perpendicular to the floor as he got to his feet. Raising his head, he sauntered to the door and peered out the peephole. Wavy locks twirled along the side of a head glancing away. Anthony opened the door, and the girl turned to face him. Dark glossy eyes, framed by heavily painted lashes, widened as they made contact with Anthony's. Shiny rose-toned lips pursed, and the lower one drooped, revealing perfect teeth. Anthony stared at the girl and staggered back a step. Holding a hand to his temple, he shook his head.

Britney Spears?!?


	5. Britney

"Hi, honey! Are you okay?" Britney drew a hand to Anthony's cheek. He took a step back.

Anthony's eyes bulged in their sockets. Gesturing toward the door, he asked, "Wha... what are you doing here?"

Britney raised her eyebrows, her jaw slack. "Don't you remember? We were supposed to meet for breakfast! I know I'm running a little late, but my flight was delayed. I just ran into the guys," she pointed a thumb over her shoulder. "They said they were late to that radio interview, and that you're not feeling very well." She sunk her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Why, honey? What's going on?"

Grimacing, Anthony wagged his head. "That's what I'd like to know."

She brushed an errant strand out of her eyes and returned the hand to her pocket. Gazing deep into Anthony's eyes, she asked, "Is there anything you want to talk about then?"

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Anthony sighed. "I am just very confused right now. Like, like why were we going to have breakfast together?"

"Well I, I..." Britney stuttered, her eyes filling with tears, "I missed you, Anthony! We were going to meet just before the Grammies, but last night you called and said to come early..." Her voice trailed off.

"You mean," Anthony raised an eyebrow, "we're dating?"

Black tears spilled down Britney's face, and she hung her head.

"Hey," Anthony breathed. Glancing about the room, he found a Kleenex box on a side table. He grabbed a few and handed them to Britney. "Hey, don't cry! I'm sorry!"

Britney accepted the tissues, and wiped away the gritty streaks. "It's just, just that I," she blubbered, "I saw a tabloid article about you and Christina Aguilera, and I..."

Anthony burst into laughter. "Don't believe everything you read," he chuckled, "ESPECIALLY not a tabloid."

She flung her arms around him, holding him close. "I love you, Ant!" her voice tickled his right ear. Tilting her head back, she locked eyes with his. Her lips parted, and she drew her face toward his.

"Hey!" Anthony hopped back a step, and she raised an eyebrow at him. "Why don't we go get some breakfast? Have you eaten today?"

"No."

"Then let's go."

*****

Hidden beneath a floppy lime terry cloth hat and thick framed red eyeglasses, Anthony raised a mug of green tea to his lips. He blew on it before taking a sip. His eyes gazed over the cup at the figure sitting across from him. A rope braid trickled over the girl's left shoulder, from beneath a sheer peach kerchief. Lines creased her forehead as she stared out the window through wire framed sunglasses.

Anthony lowered his mug to the table. It clacked against the plastic surface. Britney jolted upright and looked to her companion.

A burly man approached them and set down two bowls of fruit. Anthony grinned and peered up at him. "Thank you, my good man!"

A smile swept across staunch features. "You're very welcome, Mr. Kiedis! Say, would it be too much to ask you for an autograph? It's for my, um... my daughter! Yeah! She's a huge fan of the Chili Peppers!"

Shrugging, Anthony replied, "No trouble at all."

"I'll go get the picture then!" the man was beaming. He skipped across the tiny café, behind the cash register, and disappeared into a side room.

Anthony reached for an orange slice. As he raised it to his mouth, his eyes rested on Britney. She was biting her lower lip.

"I was afraid you'd get recognised," she whispered.

Anthony chewed at the orange slice. "It's just one guy!"

Britney shook her head. "It ALWAYS starts out with 'just one guy'. You should have worn a better disguise, like that one you have with the fake nose."

"What's this I have?" Anthony questioned, scrunching his brows.

"You know, the one you usually wear." Britney held an open palm toward him.

Anthony snorted. "And you're willing to be seen in public with me?"

A smile stretched across her face. Creases disappeared. "It is a funny looking nose..."

"My real one, or the disguise?"

"Ant!" Britney laid a hand over his, her fingernails playing across his knuckles. Gazing into his eyes, she added, "Of COURSE the disguise! You don't need me telling you this, not with people al over the world saying it, but you are a beautiful person." She raised a hand to her lips. "Oh! Have you seen the current issue of _People_ magazine?"

Anthony shook his head. Ducking under the table, Britney leaned over her denim knees and dug around in a Hawaiian print handbag. She retrieved a magazine and flopped it onto the tabletop. Anthony's eyes bugged out. From under the red outlined white "PEOPLE" logo grinned a picture of himself, beside the pale gold print "The Sexiest Man Alive 2001: Anthony Kiedis".

"Must have been a shortage on sexy men this year," Anthony mumbled, reaching for the magazine as Britney sipped her water. He flipped through the pages. "Is this real?"

Britney's glass clunked against the table. "Of course it's real!"

Pushing his glasses to the top of his nose, Anthony scanned the pages he turned. Halfway through the magazine, he stopped upon a black and white picture. Light icicle strands lay across his photo self's forehead, the tips brushing across his brows. Dark eyes steady at the camera, solemn expression. Skinny white text to the left read "The Sexiest Man Alive 2001", each word on its own line. Under it, in bold crimson letters, was his name. Anthony read the caption beneath it: "From joke act to pop star, this man proves that it's never too late to change".

"It wasn't right of them to call your early work a 'joke act'," Britney commented, nibbling on an apple slice. A smile spread across her lips. "It WAS racy, wasn't it!"

Anthony closed the magazine and slid it across the table to her. "Yeah," he grinned. Looking her in the eye, he asked, "Were you a fan of the early stuff?"

"Well, not at the time." Britney swallowed some water. "I wasn't even ten yet when your band broke up. But, when I was on the Mickey Mouse Club a couple of years later, a lot of the older Mouseketeers would listen to your albums on the set, especially Freaky Styley. Though my favourite is The Uplift Mofo Party Plan; that one's a real rump shaker."

"'Rump shaker'," Anthony smirked. "I like that!"

The waiter slid a magazine clipping in front of Anthony, one featuring a shot of the Chili Peppers. He handed Anthony a pen. "Can you make it out to Al please?"

Anthony took up the pen and laid his left hand over the picture's top corner. "Your daughter's name is Al?" His eyes darted upward at the man, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

"Short for Allison?"

Cracking a smile, Anthony scrawled across the photo. The waiter's face relaxed as he accepted the autographed picture from the singer.

"Thanks, Mr. Kiedis!" the man's bulky fingers hugged the photo to his chest. He beamed. "I, ah... um, my DAUGHTER'll love this!"

"Um... honey?" Britney's voice raised an octave. Anthony turned to her, and his eyes followed her attenuated finger out the window. Dozens of faces pressed against the glass, twice as many eyes staring at Anthony, excited smiles abounding.

"I was afraid of this," Britney whispered. She turned to the waiter. "Do you have a back door?"

The waiter opened his mouth.

"No, it's okay," Anthony replied. Shrugging, he looked to Britney. "We can greet a few fans."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ant, are you sure?"

"Yeah! Let's go!"

Anthony paid the bill and flicked a tip onto the table. He headed for the front of the café, Britney in tow. He swung open the door. Cries erupted.

"Anthony!"

"Oooh!"

And ear piercing screams. CD booklets and photos shot toward him. Anthony grabbed a booklet. His eyes bugged out as he signed it. The words "Red Hot Chili Peppers: Millennium" ran across the top in a bold blue font. Beneath the heading stood Anthony, John, Michael, Kevin, and Brian, dressed in blinding white suits, arms open, dead serious expressions. Anthony grinned.

An arm thrust into his side.

"Uhh!" The pen jerked in Anthony's hands, stray ink streaking across the pant legs of Michael and Kevin. The three brunettes in front of him drew closer, and somebody shoved into his back. "Um, can everybody just move back a bit?"

Bodies slammed into him, from either side and into his back. A pony tailed teen fell into his arms.

"Anthony!"

One cry distinct from the masses of others calling his name, barely audible over the screams. Anthony glanced over his shoulder. Britney, thirty feet away, was sinking into the crowds, her golden crown and fear stricken eyes peeking out over their heads. He reached for her and tripped.

"Please move back, people!" he called out to the horde. Pressing on all sides intensified. The masses drew nearer to him, throwing the girl in his arms into his chest and knocking the wind out of Anthony. He gasped.

Faces spiraled around him, his head swaying. His eyelids drooped.

"We love you, Anthony!" a voice cut through the crowd, sounding to the singer to be miles away. He lost his footing, and the horde sucked him in. He went down.


	6. "That's The Time I Fall In Love Again..."

Supporting Anthony on her left arm, Britney rushed through a door and slammed it behind her. Fingers glided up to a lock and slid it into place. She sighed. Turning to Anthony, her eyes widened and watered. Perspiration dotted her forehead.

"Ant," she panted, "are you, are you okay?"

Anthony leaned against the pop star, nestled under her protective arm. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, and nodded.

Britney flung her arms around his midsection. A hiss escaped his lips as his abdomen stung and throbbed beneath her grasp. Gasping, she stepped back. Her eyes bulged, her rose petal lips parted. "Oh, no! You're hurt!"

She took his hand and led him further into the room. Dingy beige tiles covered every square inch of wall and floor space. Gray metal doors stood to the left of them, tan counter lined with porcelain sinks to their right. Britney patted counter space between two sinks, and Anthony seated himself there. She raised the tails of his suit shirt, unveiling rouge toned splotches across his six-pack. She drew a hand to her mouth and cried, "Oh my word! That looks bad!" She gripped his right hand tighter in her own. He winced.

"Can you please not hold my hand so tight?" Anthony requested through clenched teeth. Britney loosened her hold and turned his hand in her own. Crimson blood shimmered across Anthony's knuckles, and stained Britney's fingertips.

"Oh, Anthony!" She turned the hot water knob on the sink in front of her. Water flowed from its faucet, splashing against the drain. Britney pulled Anthony's injured hand into the stream. Water ran red, its brightness fading as it closed in around the wound.

Britney took her handbag off her shoulder and lay it by the side of the sink, away from Anthony. One hand underwater with her companion's, the other digging around in the bag. Hair dangled over her face, and she stopped to tuck it behind her ear. Then her hand slid back into the bag and pulled out a palm-sized yellow tube.

"I know I had some Neosporin in here," she mumbled to herself. She set down the tube on the countertop, her eyes meeting with Anthony's.

"Hold on a second, okay, honey?"

She released her hand from Anthony's and opened one of the gray doors behind her. She stepped into the stall, her clogs slapping against the tile, and retrieved a fistful of toilet paper.

Gesturing toward a shiny paper towel dispenser, Anthony asked, "Why not just use paper towels?"

Britney shook her head. "They're too rough," she said. Her eyebrows slanted toward her nose. "I don't want to make it worse than it is."

Britney furrowed her eyebrows as she squeezed Neosporin onto the toilet paper and dabbed it on Anthony's cut. She caressed his knuckles with it.

"You didn't have to do all this," Anthony spoke, a grin emerging over his lips.

"I just don't want it to get infected," Britney replied, watching as blood sunk into the tissue. She glanced up, into his eyes. "I care about you, Ant! And I don't like to see you hurt."

Anthony smirked. "Like when you rushed out onstage when I tripped over a mic chord performing at the..." He trailed off, smile fading. He furrowed his eyebrows.

Britney's eyes widened. "What's wrong?"

His mouth dropped open, uttering a couple inaudible syllables before, "That didn't really happen. Why do I remember it then?"

"That happened!"

"No, it didn't!"

"Yes, it most certainly did!" Britney shook her head. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, "Why are you questioning it?"

Anthony rubbed the bridge of his nose, and shut his eyes. Wagging his head, he sighed. "I'm not trusting my memory."

"Why not?" Britney set down the bloodied tissue and took hold of Anthony's fingers. Gazing deep into his eyes, she said, "You know, I'm worried about you, honey. You're acting really strange today. I think it's stress building up... and that's not good for you, Ant. You need to relax."

Silence filled the room. Britney bit her lower lip and glanced away. Then her eyes lit up, and she turned back to Anthony.

"Let's see a movie!" she exclaimed, eyes shimmering, lips curving into a smile.

Anthony steadied his gaze upon her, an amused smirk playing across his lips. "A movie?"

"Yeah!" she replied. "There's a theatre in this mall! We can go see 'Moulin Rouge'."

Shrugging, Anthony replied, "Okay." He slid of the counter top, clutching his midsection, and headed for the door.

"Wait!"

Anthony turned around, only to find Britney searching through her bag again. She pulled out a mousy brown wig. Synthetic hairs spiraled in curls down the arm that held it.

"Put this on first," she said. "You shouldn't take any more chances."

Gesturing toward the wig, Anthony snorted. "I'm gonna look pretty."

Britney approached the chuckling Chili Pepper and removed his floppy green hat. She plopped the wig onto his head. "It's no worse than what you usually wear for disguises." She smiled, her eyes fixed on his hairline as she tucked loose strands under the wig. She stepped back and giggled.

Anthony glanced to his right, into a mirror. Curls spiraled off his head and rested in massive clumps on his shoulders. He stared at himself through his eyeglasses.

"In a way," he stated, "I look like Hillel did, back in high school. The hair at least, not the glasses."

"God rest his soul," Britney whispered. Her eyes met with Anthony's and held momentarily. A heat wave swept over him, his heart rate quickening. He drew a hand to his forehead.

"Oh! Your hat!" Britney handed him the terry cloth hat. His fingers brushed over hers as he accepted it. Eyes steady on Britney. Anthony pulled the hat over his curly crown. She took his hand, flashed a smile, and unlatched the door. She led him out of the bathroom.

They took an immediate left, right into the mall's movie theatre. Before them sat a spiky haired kid in a crimson vest over a white suit shirt, behind a desk. Movie titles and times glowed in mustard toned letters against a black screen over his head.

Britney approached the kid. "Two tickets for the next showing of Moulin Rouge please." Her sunglasses hung on the collar of her lavender blouse, her only "disguise" the peach kerchief over her hair. She swept a hand into her handbag.

"Okay," the kid replied, stabbing at buttons on a cash register with an index finger. "That'll be fifteen dollars."

Anthony dug a hand into his back pocket. Sh**! No wallet.

"Um, Britney?" he gave her a weak smile. "I don't have any cash on me."

Batting her eyelashes, Britney grinned. "I asked YOU out, honey! I'm treating." She pulled out a fuzzy gray wallet and opened it. And produced a twenty dollar bill.

The kid accepted the money. His fingers ran across the cash register.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!... DING!

A drawer popped out of the register, into the kid's midsection. He slid the twenty under its metal clip and pulled out a five dollar bill. He handed it to her. A couple, coming from behind Britney and Anthony, stepped up to the desk.

"Um, sir?" Britney piped up. "We didn't get our tickets."

The kid rolled his eyes. Heaving a sigh, he yanked the two tickets from their dispenser. Without looking, he shoved the tickets across the desktop. They slid across the slick plasticy surface and fluttered to the floor. Britney bent over and picked them off the puce carpet.

"Hey! Excuse me..." Anthony turned to the kid, wagging his index finger.

Britney grabbed his shoulder. "Ant? Let it go."

Waving a hand at the kid in disgust, Anthony pivoted on his right foot and followed Britney to the concession stand.

"That punk was disrespectful," Anthony thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "I was going to ask for the manager."

Wagging her head, Britney sighed. "It's just not worth it. What do you want for snack?"

Anthony rubbed his aching abdomen. He didn't think his stomach could even take food right now. "A water would be great."

"You sure you don't want anything else?" she furrowed her brows. He nodded. Britney turned to the vested gentleman behind the counter. "Can I just get a small popcorn and a couple waters please?"

The fellow nodded. Snatching a fist-sized bag, he asked, "Do you want butter on your popcorn?"

"No, thanks." Britney pressed her arms against the glass countertop and leaned over it. "Oh, and would I be able to get just a large cup of ice too?"

Pursing together his lips, the man grimaced. "I can't give you that unless you pay for the drink."

"That's okay."

Soon they were wandering down a narrow hallway lined with doors. Overhead, flashing signs jutted out from the mantels of the doors, each displaying a movie name and time.

Britney held her popcorn and drink with one hand. With her free one, she pointed to a door several feet ahead, to their left. "There it is!" As she lowered her arm, she rotated her hand. She glanced at the gold Seiko wrapped around her wrist. "The movie's already started!"

The two shuffled through the door and down a dark corridor. Light shone from the end of it. As they approached, Julia Robert's face came into focus, giant and glowing from the big screen, glasses perched on her nose, a cell phone to her ear. Britney breathed a sigh.

"Good! We just missed some previews."

She slipped her hand into Anthony's and led him down an aisle of seats. Anthony glanced about the theatre. In the middle of the auditorium sat five girls, leaning over a guard rail. Faces illuminated, they chattered to one another. Three rows behind them and off to the right, a man hugged a woman close to his chest, and the two glued their eyes to the screen. Every other seat was empty.

Britney sat down, and Anthony eased himself into the seat beside her. He groaned as his stomach scrunched.

Britney took hold of the largest cup and pulled. Her teeth clenched, her nose wrinkled. At long last, the cup dislodged from the tray. Ice clunked within the cup. She set down the popcorn and tray, and turned to Anthony. Her free hand traveled down his chest, to his shirt tails. Her fingers hooked around the hem of the article of clothing and lifted it.

"What are you doing?" Anthony slid back in his seat and raised an eyebrow.

Eyes steady on Anthony's waist, Britney said, "I'm checking out your bruise. It's already starting to swell." She handed him the extra large cup. "You should put some ice on it during the movie."

Anthony's eyes closed, then opened. He held his gaze on her as he accepted the cup. "Thanks." He pressed the cup into his throbbing six-pack.

The two turned to the screen. They watched as a red carpet opened to the 20th Century Fox logo. Their signature score resonated through the theatre.

Britney's arm lay across the rest between her and Anthony. He watched as her fingernails drummed on its glossy lacquer. As they scraped in small circles and rapped again. She turned to him and shyly smiled. The two turned back to the screen.

A scene of rooftops spanned the screen, tinted yellow, marred by dancing black smudges, like an old movie. A man hung out a window to the left, back stiff, head pointed upward.

"There was a boy," his singing voice crackled. "A very strange, enchanted boy..."

The music swept over Anthony, his eyes slipping out of focus. Images flashed through his mind. He and Britney, hand-in-hand, jogging along a beach, dancing at a night club, lost in one another's eyes over a dinner table. In his mind's eye, he saw himself holding a microphone, stepping to the side, and tripping over a chord. Tumbling to the floor. Laughter abounding around him, snickering hissing from even his bandmates. A sweet angel had skid to his side, tarnishing her shimmering silver evening gown. Glossy brown eyes met with his, met and connected. Eternally fused.

"This he said to me," the funny man on the screen sang. "The greatest thing you'll ever know is just to love - and be loved in return-"

Anthony's fingers dipped into the space between the armrest and Britney's palm. They wrapped around her hand, their fingers interdigitated. And their eyes met.

Met, and connected.


	7. The Beat Down

Fingers tightly laced and swinging between them, Anthony and Britney glided down the hotel hallway. Water dripped off his drenched body, trickling over her hand. Britney held the other to her lips and muffled a laugh.

"I CAN'T believe you did that!" she giggled, leaning into her outstretched palm.

Cracking a smile, Anthony shrugged. "I used to do that all the time, back when I was a kid." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key card. "Flea used to do it too!"

"Flea?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," his smile waned. "That was Michael's nickname."

They stopped in front of a door. As Anthony held out the keycard, Britney drew nearer to him, laying a hand on his chest. "I never knew you were this crazy, Ant!" she whispered. "I'm liking it!"

Anthony lowered the keycard from the electronic lock. Gazing upon Britney brought a soft, sweet grin to his lips. He drew his arms around her and fell into her shimmering, chocolate-toned eyes. He swept her closer to himself. Leaning in, he closed his eyes and brushed his lips across hers. He left a gentle kiss before moving back. The two exchanged smiles, and Anthony slid the keycard across the lock. Red light to green.

BEEP!

Britney giggled, and Anthony couldn't help but join in, though he had no idea what it was about. They breezed through the hotel room door, into the dark room. Anthony flicked on the lights. Britney gasped, and clutched her chest. She and Anthony's sights fell upon a figure perched on a desk chair, facing the now open door. Their eyes drifted over the scowl on the man's face, the furrowed eyebrows, creased forehead, and pouting lips.

"I was going to ask where the hell you were," the man spoke evenly, "but I can see that you were wasting time with your girlfriend."

Sighing, Anthony shook his head. "Flea..."

"It's Michael! MICHAEL!" the other barked, pounding a fist on the armrest beneath it. Raising a finger at Anthony, he added through clenched teeth, "I swear, you all me that again, and I am going to hurt you!"

"Michael," Anthony raised his eyebrows, "Come on, brother! I'll take responsibility. It was my fault we spent so long out. We just lost track of time. You know how it goes..."

Michael jolted to his feet. Holding a hand out to Anthony, he raged, "You just HAD to jump off the hotel into the pool. That was a priority today!" Michael sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Just, just get ready to go, okay? We're going to be late as it is." He glared at Britney. "YOU might as well get out of here!"

She bowed her head, turning toward the door. Anthony swept a hand over her shoulder, and a single hushed syllable breathed from his lips. "Wait." He turned to Michael. "Come on, man! You know that's no way to talk to a lady."

Cackling, Michael wagged his head. Shooting an accusing finger at Britney, he scoffed, "THAT is not a lady. THAT is a bitch."

Anthony stepped closer to Michael, hovering a few inches over his bandmate, eyes locked in a stare-down. "What the hell is your problem?"

"MY problem?!" Michael exclaimed. "I'm not the one running around with some Yoko, doing my damnedest to rip apart the band!"

Spit splashed onto Anthony's face. He kept his eyes steady. Furrowing his eyebrows, he shook his head. "This is unbelievable. As if this band's even WORTH keeping together anymore! I don't know what the hell we've let it become!"

Michael's eyes widened, and he snorted. "You're not telling me you... This band was sh** before Brian and Kevin came along and saved our asses! You know that! You've said so several times yourself!"

Anthony opened his mouth, then closed it again. He drew a hand to his lips. Michael's words felt so familiar, and somehow true. His mind drifted back to the time when the two of them had gone on a ski trip with the Kentucky cousins. Brian and Kevin were both seasoned skiers, yet spent all day on the bunny slopes with Michael and Anthony, who kept ramming into snow banks. A general feeling of contentment swept over Anthony. He loved those guys. They were his brothers.

"Sh**," he whispered, lowering and wagging his head. "I'm sorry. You know I love you and Bri and Kev. And I love the band." He made eye contact with Michael. "But that doesn't excuse your disrespecting Britney. You should know that nothing can drive apart the band, and she's not trying to either. I love her." His gaze slipped to his girl, who smiled. He stepped toward her, and wrapped an arm around her back. And gave her a squeeze.

Michael drew a hand to his forehead. Closing his eyes, he replied, "I'm sorry, man. Guess I'm just feeling stressed lately."

"It's all right," Anthony assured him. "I think we're all in the same place."

Bobbing his head lightly, Michael lowered his arm. His baby blues trained on Anthony. "We do need to get ready to go though."

"Yeah, you're right." He turned to Britney. "Baby, meet me down at the limo in a few minutes?"

A soft smile swept across her lips. "I'll be waiting for you." The two stole a quick kiss before she left the room at Michael's heels. The door clicked shut. Sighing, Anthony turned to the closet. To his charming wardrobe. He dragged himself to the closet, grumbling under his breath. Sneering, he flung open the walk-in's doors. And stepped inside. His eyes fell upon the closest suit to him. Its classy gray on dark gray weave and handsome cream coloured turtleneck appealed to him. He smiled as he snatched its hanger off the railing. He HAD to wear this one tonight.


	8. "That's Me In The Corner..."

"Great!" Michael murmured under his breath. He stood arms crossed beside Anthony, sporting a white silken tie and suit shirt beneath a black suit jacket. The silver-buttoned cuffs peeked out from beneath the jacket. He nodded his head toward the approaching figure. "Here comes Timberlake!"

Clutching her sheer, pale pink shawl to her chest, Britney drew closer to Anthony.

"Anthony!" the individual grinned. The tight golden ringlets crowning his head danced in the breeze as he approached and flung his arms around the Chili Pepper. Flashbulbs went off around them. "So good to see you, buddy! How've you been?"

"Uh, fine, Justin." Anthony patted Justin Timberlake's back. He could feel the NSync frontman's breath at his ear. Cologne wafted off him, assaulting Anthony's olfactory.

"Asshole!" Justin muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Anthony to hear. He drew back, a toothy smile gracing his lips. "Good to hear! Hey, good luck tonight!" He swaggered off, toward his bandmates.

"I hate that guy!" a voice grumbled behind Anthony. Kevin ran a hand over his goateed chin, then smoothed his shiny orange tie and suit shirt. He adjusted the broad collar of his ebony suit jacket. Shaking his head, he added, "I don't know where he thinks he gets off."

To Kevin's right, Brian sighed. He stood in a suit matching Michael's. "Don't let Justin make you feel bad, Anthony," Brian's puppy dog eyes made contact with his bandmate's. "He's having a lot of problems right now, and we should be praying for him."

Kevin patted Brian's shoulder. "That's right, brother. Absolutely right. I'm sorry."

Leaning toward Anthony, Michael muttered, "I still say Timberlake's an asshole." The two snickered.

Ear piercing shrills erupted as the Chili Peppers sauntered down the red carpet, leading to the building's double doors. Security guards lined either side of the carpet, facing the crowds, their arms up and hands grabbing at the lunging fans. Anthony stared wide eyed at the people. The last time he had felt this scared was Woodstock '99... He furrowed his brows. Woodstock '99? Images of mud ridden people smashing stuff and howling around a climbing bonfire engulfed his mind. Anthony shook his head. That was just a dream, just a dream... just a dream.

Out of the corner of his eye, Anthony caught sight of a bowed figure, shuffling behind Kevin. The individual squirmed in his all navy suit, shocks of his ragged jet toned hair streaking his features. Dark eyes peered out between strands, wide and darting about.

"Come on!"

Anthony turned as Michael beckoned him toward the open double doors. He watched as his bandmates waved to the screaming horde and followed suit. They strode inside.

A hand slipped through the crook in his arm, a whisper through his ear. "What's the matter, Ant?" the sweet voice tickled his neck.

He leaned toward Britney. "Something doesn't seem right," he mumbled his reply.

"Everything's fine, honey," she chuckled back. "You're just nervous. It's okay. Everything is going to be fine!"

A team of security guards escorted the band backstage. As the group swept past rows of camera clad individuals, Anthony shook his head.

"I don't think that's the problem," he whispered, glancing at the figure shuffling behind Kevin. "Something's the matter with John."

Raising an eyebrow, Britney exclaimed, "John?!" Michael and Brian eyed her. "Why do you think that?" she whispered, her eyes trained on the staring band members. The two turned back to one another and struck up a quiet conversation. "Why are you worried about him?"

"He's so, so..." Anthony watched as John rubbed the side of his nose and hung his head. "Just DETATCHED from everything. Don't you see it?"

Britney shrugged. Pulling her slipping shawl over her shoulder with her free hand, she whispered, "I don't know, Ant. Isn't that just the way he is?"

Truth rang in her answer. Anthony bit his lower lip. "That's true, yeah." He felt Britney's arm stiffen and her grasp tighten around his own. She stared straight ahead. Anthony followed her sights, to the figure before them. An involuntary shudder wracked his body. A stout middle aged man scowled at the Chili Pepper, pudgy hands resting on the spare tire around his hips. Glaring at Anthony through wire framed glasses, the man stepped forward. Wisps of silver streaked brunette hair shot in every which direction from his head.

Recognition flashed in Anthony's eyes, and he smiled. "Hey, Lou! How's it..."

Louis Pearlman drew back a chunky palm and drove it across Anthony's jaw, knocking the end of the sentence out of the Chili Pepper's face and slamming him to the ground. Anthony's head hit the floor with a thump. His eyes fluttered shut as he lay where he landed and rubbed his jaw. Opening them, Anthony fought to focus on the black trees before him, which materialized into his manager's legs.

"What the hell is wrong with you, boy?" Lou's voice hollered through Anthony's head. "I turned on the radio this morning only to learn that you didn't feel like going! Don't you know how that makes the band look? Don't you care about anybody but yourself?"

Teeth chattering, lower lip trembling, Anthony uttered, "I, I'm sorry, Lou..."

The legs caved, and fell into a kneeling position before Anthony. And Lou's round, snarling face overtook the Chili's filed of vision. Hot feta cheese breath hissed through clenched teeth. "Sorry?!" Lou swept an arm around his victim's back. The cuffed fabric around Anthony's neck tightened as Lou rattled him, and he coughed. "The damage is done, boy! How dare you think sorry is enough!"

"Please, Lou!" a tiny voice braved. The manager gyrated his torso, allowing Anthony to see the figure quaking past him. Lines creased Brian's forehead, his brows slanted toward his nose, his eyes so wide that they appeared cartoonlike. He chewed at his lower lip.

"Lou heaved a sigh. "You say something? Did I hear you say something, Littrell?"

Brian released his lower lip from his teeth, and it trembled. "Yea, ah, yes s-sir." His eyes welled up, and he shuddered. "I... I..."

"What is it, Littrell?" Lou barked. The boy jumped and stumbled into Kevin. His manager stared him down with a sneer.

"N-n-n-nothing, sir." Brian's teeth took hold of his bottom lip.

Lou's glare returned to Anthony. "I've given you everything, boy! Don't make me take it all away! Go get your sorry ass ready! You're not screwing his up like you did at the AMAs!" He shoved Anthony's head into the floor and got to his feet. The portly manager shuffled away from the band.

Groaning, Anthony raised his head and held the base of it in his left hand. His fingers swept through his hair, across a forming egg. His entire head throbbed, his hand along with it in sympathy. He clenched his eyes shut. And opened them. They focused upon cold blue eyes. Michael turned away and sauntered after Lou.


	9. "That's Me In The Spotlight..."

Anthony eased into a director's chair, cringing at his reflection in the mirror before him. The gaudy round lights framing it hurt his eyes, and he winced. A hand squeezed his shoulder, another handed him a fiery silk T-shirt.

"Swan," Kevin voiced as Anthony accepted the shirt from him. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me, bro," Anthony replied. Heat slashed over his jaw.

A crooked smile swept across Kevin's face. "You'd better change your shirt so they can do your make-up."

Anthony slid out of his gray on gray plaid suit jacket, then lifted his turtleneck up over his head. As he slipped the shirt off his arms, he caught sight of his girlfriend, Britney, huddled behind Kevin, nibbling on her cuticles. Nervous eyes met with his. Anthony gestured toward the door. "Baby, you should go get ready," he voiced. "Aren't you presenting first?"

She nodded, and Anthony furrowed his eyebrows. How the hell had he known that? With a soft, sweet kiss, Britney left him.

A make-up artist approached as Anthony pulled on the red shirt. He glanced past her, at the figure leaning by the door. Eyes downward, mind elsewhere. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, slouched against the door frame, and sighed. Black bristles tickled Anthony's forehead and danced down his nose. He closed his eyes as the make-up brush swept over them.

"We should all get ready." Anthony could hear Kevin's voice comment.

"I want to stay here with Anthony," a meek voice replied. "If that's okay."

"That's fine, man. Hey, see ya in a few, Anthony!"

"Yeah, see ya, Kev!" Anthony called. The brush dotted across his cheeks, and he opened his eyes. Through crescent slits, deep and shimmery blue eyes gazed at Anthony. Brian crossed his lightly toned arms. He furrowed his eyebrows, his thin pink lips curving into a little smile.

"So," Brian spoke softly, rubbing his biceps. "You ready for tonight?"

The spiky bristles traveled down Anthony's face, stabbing into his jaw. Tingly shocks of pain assaulted his chin, and he winced. Turning his attention to his reflection, Anthony watched the cosmetic brush erase rosy splotches before his eyes. "What song are we performing tonight?"

'Shape of my Heart.' The answer floated through his brain. Of course!

Chuckling, Brian shook his head. Fears drained from his features. Anthony laughed along with his bandmate, but his smile faded within a heartbeat.

"Sh**." Anthony glanced at Brian, then closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, I mean shucks. Listen, I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm just nervous, but I can't remember a darn word of that song."

"Really?" Brian's brows raised as he widened his eyes.

Anthony nodded. "Can you help me out, bro?"

Steadying his eyes on his bandmate, Brian grabbed the studio chair beside him and slid into it. "Okay. Well, I'll come in first. You at least remember that I singe the first verse solo?"

Anthony nodded, though he didn't.

"And that's where I sing 'Baby, please try to forgive me. Stay here, don't put out the glow...'"

Shaking his head, Anthony broke in. "I can't even remember the tune!"

Brian sighed. A woman stepped up behind him and put some gel in his corn-silk hair. As she ran her fingers through it, he sang, "Baby, please try to forgive me. Stay here, don't put out the glow. Hold me now don't bother - if every minute it makes me weaker. You can save me from the man that I've become." Opening his eyes, Brian grimaced.

Anthony smiled back at him. "That was beautiful, man. Why the heck doesn't it sound familiar?"

The woman behind Brian wiped her hands on her apron. She stepped to his side and took a cosmetic brush to his face, across his wrinkled brow. He bit his lower lip.

"I have an idea," he stated, his eyes locked on Anthony's. "Since you don't have a solo in this song anyway, why don't you just lip sync the chorus?"

Anthony snorted. His make-up artist applied mascara to his lashes. "I don't know if I can do it."

Gulping, Brian winced. "I know you're nervous, Ant, but you've got to pull yourself together! Please relax!"

'Lou.' The single word thought stung Anthony's brain. He swallowed hard and gazed into Brian's deep blue eyes. "Lou's gonna skin me if I screw up," he stated.

Brian's make-up artist painted his pursed lips with a sheer peach gloss. "Just don't get so scared." Tears brimmed in his eyes, and Anthony sighed.

"You're petrified of the man."

Letting in a deep breath through his nostrils, Brian raised and lowered his head. He opened his mouth. "I, I'm afraid of what he'll do to you if you make another mistake." He lowered his head further. The woman beside him raised it again and combed his eyebrows with a tiny black comb.

"Don't YOU get so scared, little brother," Anthony replied with a smile. "Chilies look out for each other. We'll all be okay."

Brian managed a grin. "I'll try not to worry."

"I'll try too." He extended his right hand to his friend. The palm of Brian's hand slapped into Anthony's. Their hands clasped. Leaning toward one another, they each wrapped their free arm around the other and embraced. Anthony's jaw hit against Brian's broad shoulder and pulsated with pain.

"Hey, let's not ruin the make-up."

Brian snorted a laugh and drew back. "I need to go get dressed real quick..."

"Yeah, go ahead."

*****

Anthony peered out the parting of the satin curtains as Britney glided across the stage. Thousands of clapping hands filled the auditorium beyond. They silenced as she took the microphone and held it to her lips.

"Ladies and gentlemen," her voice resonated off the walls, "it is my privilege to introduce our first musical guests, the world wide sensation and the five sweetest guys you could ever meet... ladies and gentlemen, the Red Hot Chili Peppers!"

Michael stormed past Anthony, onto the shaded side stage. Anthony followed at his heels. He glanced at Brian, who watched his steps beside him, before his eyes met with his goateed bandmate. Kevin flashed a grin. Behind him, John ducked out of view.

The five men stood side-by-side on stage. A soft pink light came on, glazing over their features and illuminating them. A tune floated through the air. Anthony closed his eyes, absorbing its melody through all his senses. He HAD to remember!

To his right, in the smack dab centre of the stage, Brian raised his left hand. "Hmm, hmm. Hmm, hmm," he hummed. "Yeah yeah." He took a step forward and sang, "Baby, please try to forgive me. Stay here, don't put out the glow. Hold me now don't bother - If every minute it makes me weaker. You can save me from the man that I've become." His head shook as he crooned. "Oh yeah."

Suddenly the words deluged Anthony's mind, and he grinned.

"Looking back on the things I've done," the five sang in unison. White and blue lights exploded overhead. "I was trying to be someone. Played my part, kept you in the dark. Now let me show you the shape of my heart."

As Michael started into the second verse alone, Anthony and Brian exchanged smiles.


	10. "Leaving Town"

~ two weeks later ~

"Nah - nahnahnahnahnah," Anthony sang, a childish smile plastered across his face, glowing from the light of the TV. He lay on his stomach across a teal sofa, knees bent, his legs swinging in the air. He pointed and relaxed his toes, crossed and uncrossed his ankles. "Nah - nahnahnahnahnah!" Dangling his arm off the sofa, his fingers latched onto a glass of milk. He raised it to his lips and took a few sips.

"Looney Tunes!" a voice exclaimed. A body lunged across the room and landed bottom-first on Anthony's back. An "oof!" escaped his lips. Milk splattered across his nose, and he wiped it off. The individual on his back said, "I hope it's a Marvin the Martian episode!"

"Daffy's better," Anthony replied in monotone, lowering his milk glass to the floor. "Kev, I think you just saved me a trip to the chiropractor."

A goofy grin spanned Kevin's face. "No problem!"

Anthony swung his legs faster, digging his heels into his bandmate's side.

"Hey!" Kevin exclaimed, and grabbed hold of Anthony's ankle, giving it a twist. Anthony howled, laughed, and kicked harder.

A shadow loomed over the brothers. "Guys, we have to get some work done."

Letting go of Anthony's ankle, Kevin looked up at the figure. "Aw, come on, Michael!" His eyes drifted to the TV set. "Yes! Marvin AND Daffy! Sweet!" The two on the couch stared after the cartoon figures.

Michael stepped in front of the set.

"Hey! Down in front!" Anthony cried. Furrowing his eyebrows, he waved at Michael. "Move your lard ass, pal!"

Pivoting on his left foot, Michael turned off the television.

CLICK!

"Come on! I have an idea for the music video."

Anthony dug his hand in between the cushion beneath his chest and the backing of the sofa. He retrieved a remote control.

CLICK!

The television came to life. Anthony and Kevin shifted to the right and watched as Marvin the Martian scooted across the screen with his Martian dog.

CLICK! Michael smacked the power button on the TV. TV off.

CLICK! Anthony hit the power button on his remote. TV on.

CLICK!

CLICK!

"Quit it!" Michael exclaimed, slamming his fist into the TV's power button.

CLICK!

Anthony's adorable crooked teeth shown through his smile. CLICK!

Michael grabbed at the remote. Anthony pulled back his hand and buried it beneath the couch cushion. Latching onto the remote bearing Chili's elbow, Michael yanked at Anthony's arm, chuckling so hard that he was losing his footing.

"Kevin!" Anthony called out, pushing away Michael with his free hand. "Kevin, help me!"

Rolling forward off Anthony's back, Kevin rammed head first into Michael's abdomen. The two tumbled to the floor, smacking one another and laughing. Michael flipped his buddy onto his stomach and sat on his back. Kevin's arms flailed as best they could behind him as Michael pinched the space between the other's neck and shoulder.

"No, no!" Kevin cried through laughter. "Not the clavicle!"

"Sleeper hold!" Grinning insanely, Michael pressed his thumb harder into the pinch.

Kevin's eyes rolled back. "Ahh! Stop! Stop!"

The hotel room door swung open. Resting comfortably on his stomach, Anthony glanced at the door to find Brian staring at the fray.

"Hey, Brian!" Anthony greeted him. He swept his bowl of Cheerios off the floor space beside him and took up the spoon lying inside. "At least now we don't have to watch the fights on pay-per-view."

The newcomer raised his brows and smiled.

"Ahh!" Kevin screamed, eyes clenched shut, back arched. Michael laid in more pressure with his thumb, laughing maniacally.

Setting down his Cheerios, Anthony pulled out the remote control.

CLICK! TV off.

All eyes were on the Chili Pepper lounging on the couch. Anthony tossed the clicker at Kevin's feet. "Come on, guys," he spoke evenly, rubbing his eyes. "We really should get some work done."

Michael got to his feet. Extending a hand to Kevin, he shrugged. "I won anyway. Either way."

"Given the time," Kevin huffed as he grabbed Michael's hand and got to his feet, "I would have prevailed."

"Yeah!" Michael snorted. Patting Kevin's shoulder, he added, "Sure, kid!"

The four sauntered across the room, toward a round, glossy wooden table. Anthony pulled out a chair, and Michael slid into the one to its right.

"Hey," Brian plopped into the chair on the other side of Anthony. "Where's John?"

"Probably still sleeping," Anthony grimaced, wagging his head. He watched as Kevin eased his battered self into the seat across from him. "Does it really matter though?"

Kevin shook his head. "Not like he ever wants to contribute to this band!"

"No kidding," Michael muttered. "I figure we should discuss ideas for the video and just tell him what we're doing after. He'll just do whatever the heck we tell him to do. It's best this way."

Kevin's lower lip jutted out. "Still wanted to see that Marvin the Martian episode," he pouted.

Grabbing the red notebook in the middle of the table, Michael commented, "Taz is the best one anyway."

"Hey," Anthony said, rapping his palms on the table. He nodded toward Brian. "Who's your favourite Looney Tune?"

"I like Bugs," Brian replied, twiddling his fingers.

"Why?" a mischievous grin crept over Anthony's lips. "Because Bugs likes to dress in drag?"

Brian's eyes widened. He gave his bandmate a small smile. "I just think he's funny."

Michael pulled a pen out of the notebook's spiral spine. Tapping it on the table, he asked, "What's this have to do with our video?"

"Everything, my friend," Anthony replied. He snatched the notebook from Michael's fingers and flipped open the back cover. Snagging the pen, he turned the notebook upside down. "This is MY plan for the video! We save time and effort by being cartoons. And fans'll eat it up!" He drew a circle with two parallel isosceles triangles on the top. "Here's Brian," Anthony commented, tapping the centre of the circle with his pen, leaving behind splotchy dots. "And he's going to be portrayed by Bugs Bunny."

Raising an eyebrow, Kevin shook his head. "Swan, are you serious or..."

"No, just hear me out!" Anthony cut in. He drew a speech bubble to the side of the triangles. "Brian, or Bugs, actually, comes in, clutching his chest, eyes closed, passionate about the music, as always."

Brian blushed.

"And he sings...," Holding a hand to his bare chest, Anthony broke into song. "Baby, please try to forgive me..."

Smirking, Kevin raised a hand to his friend. "We know the song."

Anthony shrugged. "Okay, after Bugs' solo, the rest of us appear behind him to passionately sing the chorus." He scribbled four circles to the right of the speech bubble. Stabbing the first new circle with his pen, he said, "I'll be Daffy." He brought down his pen on the next two. "Michael's Taz, Kev is Marvin..." He paused, tapping his pen on the last circle. "And John will be..."

"Elmer Fudd!" Michael exclaimed.

"Roadrunner!" Brian threw in a wmile.

Scrunching up his face, Kevin shrugged. "Yosemite Sam?"

Anthony laughed. "Yosemite Sam?! THAT's not John!"

"I don't know."

"I like the Roadrunner suggestion," Anthony commented. He retraced the circle, cutting so deep that the centre tore from the page. "It's the most accurate. Although Roadrunner says 'MeepMeep', and John doesn't even say THAT much."

The four chuckled. Their laughter faded into silence within a half minute. Michael reached for the notebook. "Can I tell you guys MY idea now?"

"Yeah," Anthony pushed it and the pen to his right. Michael took them up and flipped to the front cover. Chicken scratches graced the first page.

"Beautiful!" Anthony exclaimed, smiling. He sat back in his chair, leaning into the backing and propping the chair up on two legs. "Now decipher that?"

"What I want," Michael proceeded. Scratching his head, he ran a finger along the text with the other hand. "Is a video that takes place in a hospital."

Kevin nodded. "Good thinking," he said. "THAT's something we haven't done!"

"What haven't we done now?" Anthony smirked. "Think?"

A sharp shoe-sized pain stabbed Anthony's shin. His grin slipped from his face to Kevin's.

"The video will be shot in the hallways." Michael regained everybody's attention. "We'll all be surgeons with coolers containing hearts..."

Brian gulped. "Um, Michael? I... have a fear of organs. Please don't make me carry one?"

Michael laughed. He reached across the table and put a hand on his bandmate's. "Brian, buddy, we'll make sure the coolers are empty!"

A sigh escaped Brian's lips, and he lowered his head.

"I might put my lunch in mine," Anthony commented.

"Whenever somebody is singing, he'll have a cooler and will make it part of his choreography. And, on all our scrubs, we'll have the front ripped open and blood gushing out."

"Gushing?" Kevin raised an eyebrow. "Should we really do gushing? That's not good for our image."

"We'd upset the fans," Brian added, biting at his lower lip.

Anthony nodded. Laying a hand on Michael's shoulder, he said, "They have a point there, bro."

"Okay." Michael dug his pen into the page and scribbled across words. "No blood."

"We should take advantage of the scrub thing!" Anthony suggested. His eyes twinkled. "We should still have them torn open to show off our chests."

Kevin scowled and shook his head. "That's not good for our image either."

"Fair enough," Anthony shrugged. "But they should be TIGHT scrubs!"

"Yeah!" Michael and Kevin exchanged grins.

THUD!

Kevin jumped in his seat, his fingers clenched around the armrests, eyes wide, frantic and searching. "What on earth was that?"

Brian's eyes grew luminous. His lower lip quivered. "It came from John's room!" he voiced.

The four scrambled out of their chairs and scurried out of the room. Anthony, Kevin, and Brian huddled behind Michael, who pounded on the door.

"Hey kid!" Michael called. "What's going on in there?"

The door flew open. Just past its frame stooped the room's occupant. Violet rings gashed beneath both sockets, outlining sunken eyes, which darted about, then stared at the floor. Sweat speckled the boy's soft features, and jet locks frizzed in tangles from his scalp. A gleaming white undershirt stretched around his torso; his muscles strained the sleeves. His jeans hung about his hips and sagged around the knees.

"I, I have to go."

The words came fast, the door's shutting faster. Fastest was Michael's palm to the door before it latched. He shoved it open, into the other's chest. The boy gasped and jumped back. Michael grabbed at a clump of the fabric across the kid's chest.

"No," Michael raged, "You tell us what's going on!"

"Michael.." Brian whispered, reaching for his bandmate's shoulder.

"Shut up, runt!" Michael snapped, sending a shudder through Brian's body. He glared at the boy in his grasp. "I'm not putting up with your crap, John! What was that noise?"

"I tipped over a lamp! I didn't mean to. It just happened."

Anthony's eyes scanned the room, running across an open suitcase on the bed. A folded blue dress shirt lay inside and in sight. Anthony's eyes widened. "You leaving, John?"

"Yeah," the Chili Pepper nodded, wiggling free from Michael's grip. "I quit."


	11. "Gone Out The Window"

"What the hell are you talking about, Frusciante?" Michael hollered, taking a step toward the musician. John raced across the room, skid into his closet, and shut the door. "You can't quit! We have a show tonight!"

"I quit anyway!" John's muffled voice called back.

With wide strides, Michael crossed the room. He rattled the knob of the closet door. "Open the door!" he demanded.

Anthony glanced from Kevin to Brian, on either side of him, each standing with their mouths open.

Michael rammed his left shoulder into the door, hand on the knob. The door popped open, and Michael dragged John out of the closet.

"Michael..." was all Anthony needed to say to fuel Kevin, who strode into the fray.

"Lay off him already!" he exclaimed, pulling John from Michael's grasp. Kevin crossed his arms. "If he wants to go, that's his call. We should let him."

"Yeah," Brain squeaked. Anthony ran a hand through his hair, catching on a tangle.

Silence. Michael raised a hand to his forehead, his icy blues darting to Kevin. "Lou won't stand for this," he commented.

"He's gonna have to," Anthony piped up dryly. Flinging an arm in John's general direction, he added, "Not like John's giving us a choice."

Scratching the back of his head, Brian squinted. "Is this really what you want?" He looked to John, who snatched a pair of slacks from the closet. John folded them in half and in half again, then lay them inside his suitcase.

"It's not want so much as need," John explained, wagging his head. He reached for a shirt and tore it off the hanger. "It's like, it's like creative forces are around and they're, they're trying to make contact but there aren't many receptive people around right now to, to understand them. And, and I know I'm capable... I can hear them. But something here is corrupting, is interfering with their signals and I, and I need to get out." His eyes looked to the ceiling and shifted as he spoke. He then made eye contact with Brian. Brian's eyes were wide, staring back at John, and lines creased his forehead. He opened his mouth and closed it. Pursing his lips, he nodded.

Michael snorted. He paced about the room, across the floor space in front of John. "This is ridiculous!" he scoffed. And, with that, he marched out of the room.

Anthony watched as the door slammed shut. Wagging his head, he heaved a sigh. "I don't know, John," he breathed, and rubbed his chin. "You're not really making a whole lot of sense."

"Yeah!" Kevin grimaced. "I've got to agree with Anthony on this one."

Brian stood chewing on his lower lip and, through slitted glossy eyes, gazed upon John.

"Are we talking...," John dropped the shirt into his bag. "Are we talking, like, empirical sense here? Is that the kind of sense I'm not making? Because I know at that level what I say doesn't, it doesn't fit that definition. It makes..." John took in a deep breath. "It makes another kind of sense, like from the fourth or fifth dimension, and it is not something that can be spoken. I can try." John smirked, shrugged, and removed another pair of pants from the closet. "I can try to explain it, but it's just not going to do any good."

The room fell into silence. Anthony folded his arms across his chest and stared after John, who folded a suit jacket.

"Do you need any help?" a tiny voice piped up. Brian braved a step forward.

Flinging his arms into the air, John said, "I just don't know how to pack. I've never gotten used to it."

Leaning over the bag, Brian retrieved the jacket crumpled across the top. He slipped it over a hanger, then pulled a suit bag from the closet. He tucked the jacket inside. Then disappeared into the closet.

"I can pack your clothes," Brian's voice traveled through the open doorway. "Just take care of your personal items."

Kevin checked his watch. "What about tonight's show? Should we go ask them to announce that it's cancelled?"

"To hell with that!" A voice boomed behind Anthony. Jolting, then swirling around, he met with a snarling chunky man at the door. He trembled. "What Michael just told me had BETTER not be true!"

John knelt beside the bedside table. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a discman. "If he said that I'm leaving, then it's true."

"Frusciante, you're not going anywhere!"

"Lou, I have to." John turned to his manager, who extended his right foot and drove it into the musician's side. John grunted and clutched his abdomen.

"How dare you defy me!" Lou raged, hovering over John with his hands about his padded waist. "I've given you everything! I've given you riches and fame, and this is the thanks I get? Women adore you all around the world, who would have never even looked at you before. Without me, you are NOTHING! You sold your sold your soul to me, boy, and when I tell you to jump..."

"Please," John rasped, his forehead at Lou's shiny loafers. "Just take it all back. I can't handle it anymore."

"Why, you ungrateful little bastard," Lou muttered, grabbing onto the nape of John's T-shirt. "You are playing tonight! You hear me, boy?"

Anthony held his breath and took a step back, catching from the corner of his eye Kevin drawing a hand to his mouth.

"Lou...," Brian whimpered. Anthony had to lip read to make out the rest. "Please just let him go."

With lion fury, Lou glared at the trembling Chili Pepper. "Littrell!" he roared. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "Shut the hell up! I'll deal with you later!" He tightened his grip on John's shirt and dragged the young man's face closer to himself. His eyes bore into John's. He spoke evenly. "You will get yourself ready. And, when you do, I am going to personally escort you to the concert where you will sing your little heart out to those girls. I don't care if you feel like singing. I don't' care if it's really from the heart and all that nonsense, so long as it sounds like it is. You will do exactly as I say, because you are nothing but a marionette like the other Chili Peppers, and I am your puppeteer." Lou let go of his shirt. "Kevin! Anthony!... Littrell!" Lou barked, gesturing toward the door. "Out!"

The three jumped and scrambled for the door, right into two security guards just outside. Anthony, the last of the trio to slip out the door, turned around as Lou stepped into the hallway. The manager drew the door shut. Just before it was about to slide into the frame, a hand jutted in its path. The door slammed on the unphased hand.

"I have to leave!" a voice from within demanded. "I HAVE to!"

"Frusciante!" Lou hollered as another hand accompanied the first. Palms and fingers wrapped around the door and pulled it toward the inside. Deep pink lines marred the knuckles. Lou rammed the door into the hands until they retreated back inside, and the door clicked shut.

Lou turned to one of the security guards as he grasped the doorknob. "Lock him in! Quick!"

The guard opened the electronic lock box with a key and ran his fingers across the keypad inside. The red light blinked and beeped rhythmically. Lou sighed and let go of the handle. The doorknob rattled, pounding emanating from the door.

"I have to get out!" a muffled voice cried. "Let me out! Let me out!"

"You get yourself under control and dressed for the concert, and I'll open this door!" Lou called. Thumping his shoe against the carpet, he hacked up phlegm and spat at Anthony's foot.

The knob stopped rattling. The pounding ceased. Footsteps fell heavy inside and lightened with each one. A faint WHOOSH! drifted through the door, accompanied by horns and traffic. Anthony's eyes grew wide.

"The window!" Brian cried. "He opened the window!"

"Open this door!" Lou hollered at the guard. Jumping, the guard scrambled for his key. He fought to get it into the lock, jammed it inside, and pounded the keypad. Red blinking to green.

BEEP!

"Ahhh!"

Anthony shuttered as the woman's cry resonated from outside, his heart for a moment stopping when he heard a sickening, bone shattering SPLAT! Horns blared.


	12. New Kid On The Block

A crisp breeze pelted against Anthony's downtrodden face. Sitting Indian-style on a bench, he stared into his lap, at the limp stem interwoven between his fingers. A black rose adorned the top. His eyes locked upon a petal, and he caressed it with his forefinger. Velvet, delicate, and sheer. Slipping his thumb over its silken underside, he petted the petal. And it snapped. Anthony sighed. The rose tear slipped from his fingers and fluttered across the breeze. Ascended. Then skipped down the sidewalk. He monitored its bouncy trek across the cement path...

And cringed when a sneakered foot tread upon it. Anthony turned away.

"Hi, Anthony!" a soft voice greeted. Swiveling his head around, Anthony gazed upon a strained smile and familiar basset hound eyes. The individual glided down a path hewn between rows of grave stones. His shoes thumped against the pavement. His black suit jacket billowed out around him, revealing the blindingly white button-up beneath.

The individual eased himself onto the bench space beside Anthony.

"Hey, Bri." Anthony plucked another petal from the rose. He grinded it between his fingers, and its pieces disappeared into the wind.

"So, um...," Brian pursed his lips, clasping his palms flat against one another. He jiggled his hands. "How are you holding up?"

Anthony snatched a third petal from the victim and crushed it. "I don't know." He shrugged. "How am I supposed to be holding up?"

Sighing, Brian replied, "There's no one way for everybody." He gave Anthony a wry smile. "Everyone feels different, and there's no right or wrong way to deal with death..."

"You wouldn't be saying that if I held up a liquor store." Anthony fisted the head of the rose and decapitated it.

Brian gulped. "I, I'm just saying that um..." He swallowed again. "That you have a right to feel whatever way you do."

Twiddling the headless stem in his fingers, Anthony smiled. "Thanks for the pop psychology, Dr. Littrell."

Brian hung his head and licked his lips. "I didn't mean to come off like that. I..."

"You're asking how I feel," Anthony breathed. He tossed the stem at his feet. "I don't know how I feel. I barely knew John. He was just some kid Michael found, who could play a mean guitar." Chuckling, Anthony sat back. He wagged his head. "He WAS an excellent guitar player, though I can only remember his sound vaguely. But I was really never friends with John. We barely ever exchanged words."

Anthony sighed. Overhead, birds chirped and fleets of cumulous clouds drifted. The setting sun illuminated the freshly mowed grass, the flittering leaves of surrounding trees. It lit up all, save the dismal grave markers, which cast long, narrow shadows.

"Actually," Brian voiced. And Anthony turned to the boy. "There's another reason why I went looking for you." He bit his lower lip. "Lou wants to see us all. Immediately."

*****

A goateed individual peered out the hotel room door. He glanced left to right before beckoning the pair in front of him to step inside.

Anthony entered the room first, following closely at Kevin's heels. Brilliant sunshine, cascading off glossy beige walls, blinded the Chili Pepper, and he squinted. Adjusting his sights, he met with Michael's hollow stare. The latter glanced away, and Anthony scanned the other side of the table. He watched as Lou got to his feet. The manager's left hand reached for the shoulder of the boy beside him, a broad smile inching his shades over the bridge of his nose. Anthony stared at the individual to Lou's left.

"Anthony! Brian! Come on in and sit down!"

Anthony studied the boy beside Lou. Golden, brown-rooted spikes crisscrossed crazily across the crown of the boy's head; the same bizarre colouring adorned his brows. The boy's stare made Anthony shutter, its emptiness accentuated by cerulean shades. Bright pink lips lay horizontally over his smooth jaw line. His hands he held clasped before him, just below his waist.

Holding an even gaze on the newcomer, Anthony eased himself into the seat to Michael's left. Brian seated himself between Anthony and Lou, and Kevin occupied the spot between the boy and Michael. Anthony barely noticed the seating arrangement in his peripheral vision as he stared at the newcomer. His eyes widened, and he smiled.

"You're Nick Carter!" Anthony grinned.

A smile swept across the boy's face, one sophisticated yet simple. He nodded. "Yes, I'm Nick. I must say, it's an honour to finally meet you and the other Chili Peppers."

"It's great meeting you!" Anthony exclaimed. Thrusting a thumb over his shoulder, he added, "Your CD is actually in my discman right now!"

Nick showed a little teeth.

A belly laugh erupted from beside the boy. "Perfect!" Lou chuckled. "I was hoping you all would get along!"

Anthony noticed Brian's back stiffen from the corner of his eye. Brian furrowed his brows and looked to Lou. "Does this mean that... Nick is John's replacement?"

"Well, don't sound so enthusiastic, Littrell!"

Brian hung his head. He shook it, and a sigh escaped his lips. "It just... seems a little soon."

"What the hell did you expect?" Lou raged, glaring at the Chili Pepper. "We've already had to cancel two shows because of... all this!" He drew in a deep breath, and it hissed out through his teeth. "Now John's death was difficult, but according to the poll on our official website, John was only the favourite band member of three percent of fans!"

Kevin's eyes bulged in their sockets, and he whistled. "Who got the highest percent?"

Shrugging, Lou grimaced. "If you must know, it was Kiedis!" He sneered and glared at Anthony. "That's GOT to be solely based on looks though! In any case, we NEED a replacement if we want this band to continue! Would anybody rather go back to flipping burgers?"

Silence reigned. Anthony and Kevin exchanged shrugs before Lou continued.

"I didn't think so," he huffed. He wagged a finger at the Chilies. "Now, tomorrow night, we're scheduled to play in San Diego. And we are GOING to perform!" Clapping his hands together, he got to his feet. "So let's get a move on, kids! Get packing!"

*****

Anthony sat on his suitcase and clipped its two metal clasps into place. He slid off its hard leather surface and flopped back on the bed. And sighed. He blinked his eyes a few times, and realized just how dark it was in his room. Shadows lorded over the walls, interrupted intermittedly by stretching, narrow parallel streaks from the window. Silence painted the room, disturbed solely by whooshing cars outside the open window.

Window.

Anthony turned his head away from it, and squeezed his eyes shut. He rubbed his temples, caressing them in round, even and deep strokes. They throbbed beneath his fingertips. His entire brain pulsated in his head, pounding, threatening to crack open his skull. He moaned quietly to himself.

RAP! RAP! RAP!

Was that coming from his head?

"Anthony?"

He rolled off the bed and dragged himself to the door, his stockinged feet swishing across the carpet. His fingers swept across a door handle. They fumbled over its slippery metal and slid off it. His hand slapped to his side. He raised it again, turned the knob, and pulled the door toward himself. It glided open a few inches, then jerked against his grasp. He gave it a tug.

"Anthony," the outside voice drifted through the crack between the door and its frame. "You still have the chain latched."

Anthony scrunched up his face. "Oh," he mumbled. He closed the door, undid the golden chain, and swung the door open. A figure leaned against the door frame, blue eyes darting down either end of the hallway. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. And his eyes met with Anthony's.

"You're not busy right now, are you?" he asked, eyes eerily bright yet hollow. "Are you packed?"

"Yeah." Anthony nodded. His head reeled. He stepped back, but the other remained. "What's up, Michael?"

The Chili Pepper shuffled where he stood. He kept his eyes steady on Anthony's. "I... I have something that you might be interested in. I know the others wouldn't be. Want to take a walk?"

Shrugging, Anthony stepped out of his room. He followed the other down the hotel corridor, finding himself staring at the back of Michael's neck. He studied the bristles that arched over his neck like fuzzy fangs. His eyes strained and stung. He let them slip out of focus and plodded after Michael's blurry form.

Gray, fuzzy Michael before him for several minutes, the only sound the pat-pat-patting of Michael's sneakered feet against the pavement. Anthony felt gravel beneath his feet, stabbing into his socks. He stumbled and swayed, darkness consuming his peripheral vision.

Michael halted, and Anthony slammed into his dress shirted back.

"Oof!"

A black bead plinked across the pavement.

"Damn it!" Michael leaned over his knees. He gathered the bead with one hand and stood up straight. He drew his other hand to it, to the elongated, shiny object he held between his fingers. Anthony squinted and furrowed his eyebrows as Michael dropped the black bead into the end of a thick glass pipe. Drawing it to his lips, he pulled out a cigarette lighter. He lit the beaded end. The flare lit up the dark green leaves inside the palm-sized pipe. Michael inhaled a puff of its life, then handed both it and the lighter to Anthony.

"Want a hit?" he asked. Shrugging, he added, "I know it's nothing like you're used to, but it's all I have right now."

Anthony accepted the pipe from Michael. He stared at it as he clenched it between his thumb and two fingers. And took the lighter with the other hand.

"You know I haven't done this sh** in years," he commented. His eyes ached, and he shut them.

"Yeah, but it's still going to seem like you're smoking paper."

Shrugging, Anthony lit the pipe and breathed in the herbs within it. He and Michael alternated hits until the pipe's life was spent. Anthony shook his head at the empty glass with a scowl.

"The reefer buzz didn't even take the edge off my headache," he growled, handing the pipe to his bandmate. "You think we can find a pusher around here?"

Michael pocketed the pipe. "It's mainly just tea heads around here," he shrugged. "But, if nothing else, somebody's bound to have some goofballs."

Anthony held a hand to his throbbing head. "Yeah, let's go."


	13. Scoring

A musty mist hovered over the patrons of Taylor's Bar. Close at Michael's heels, Anthony waded through dusty, bottle infested tables. Individuals, slouched at tables or at the bar, gazed downward. Some nursed beers. Others chugged shots of a harder ale. And a few lay their torsos across table or countertop, eyes either rolling in their heads or shut.

"A funeral was held today for John Frusciante," a bass voice monotoned. Turning his attention toward the television, Anthony saw a black and white mug shot of John. The screen flashed, and a scrawny, middle aged newscaster took its place. "Frusciante, a member of the band The Red Hot Chili Peppers, died last Monday when he fell out the window of his eighth story room at the..."

Ner, ner! Ner-ner! Ner,ner! Ner-ner!

An electric guitar blasted the familiar tune from a smoke filled stage in the corner of the bar. Long, limp blond strands hung over the guitarist's eyes and shook as he repeated the sequence. Drumsticks clenched in filthy fists raised and crashed down on the drum set behind the guitarist and thumped out a heavy beat.

The guitar softened, and a ragged voice came in.

"Load up on guns, bring your friends  
It's fun to lose and to pretend  
She's over-bored, self-assured  
Oh no, I know a dirty word

"Hello, hello, hello, how low?  
Hello, hello, hello, how low?..."

"Hey!"

Anthony glanced over as Michael clasped his palm into another man's hand.

"How's it going, brother?" Michael asked the man with a grin. The lean, sunken eyed other shrugged.

"Not too bad," the guy leaned into a gray cigarette. He slurped noisily at the filter and held it over an ash tray. "Been pretty good working the hole. Can't complain."

Michael nodded and leaned against the bar. He gazed back at the man. "So, are you anywhere?"

Sighing, the man held up his hands. A flat-lipped grimace crossed his face. "Nah, I'm clean for the time being. I'm figuring I'll be on the nod by the time I leave here though. This is the place..."

"Hello, hello, hello, how low?  
Hello, hello, hello, how low?..."

Anthony glanced over his shoulder, at the stage. The band flailed about the stage, the drummer wailing into his set, guitarist headbanging, lead singer thrashing on the floor. The singer's black tangled locks mopped the floor as the guitar riff set sail. The drummer bounced off his stool to the beat, the backward crimson baseball cap on his head threatening to fly away.

The guitar softened, and the singer got to his knees. He leaned over his legs, his snarled hair curtained over his face, as he laid into the next verse:

"And I forget just why I taste  
Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile  
I found it hard, it was hard to find  
Oh well, whatever, nevermind

"Hello, hello, hello, how low?..."

"I'd be careful, man," the feeble, middle aged guy beside Michael warned. "Not only is this place about to burn down, but, last week, this one guy showed up here selling hot shot."

"Sh**!" Michael exclaimed, eyes widening. "You serious?"

The man raised a hand like he was taking an oath, and nodded. "I swear. But the junky the pusher was trying to fool wasn't stupid. He bought it anyway, took it as a sign that someone wanted him dead. Took it as his cue to skip town."

"Damn!" Michael shook his head.

Ner nernerner nerner!  
Ner ner!

From onstage. Drums broke in.

Du dududu dudu

And vocals:

"So-n, she said  
Have I got a little story for you  
What you thought was your Daddy  
Was nothin' but a..."

The withering man's crooked raised arm caught Anthony's attention. A bony finger pointed across the room.

"That cat might be able to take care of you."

"Thanks, man!" Michael patted the guy's poofy, oversized sports jacket sleeve. Dust flew from it as Michael's palm tapped it.

The singer skid to his knees and wailed into the smoke.

"Oh I'm oh I'm still alive  
bay hey yahi oh-  
I'm still alive..."

Michael tugged at Anthony's sleeve, and the two shuffled across the bar, to a gaudily attired individual who looked like he'd just come out of the Godsmack "Greed" video. His thin, cracked lips puckered into a twisted sort of smile as his dark eyes shifted from one Chili Pepper to the other.

"Good evening, boys!" He butted his head like a steer toward the newcomers. "Have a seat at the table! You're blocking my view of the show!"

Michael slid across the faded red vinyl cushion and stopped just a foot away from the man. Anthony plopped down beside Michael, at the seat's edge. Gesturing toward the stage, he asked, "Who's that playing?"

The gaudy guy snorted. "RadioActive, I think. I don't know! Just some local cover band! The singer and the drummer aren't too bad, but that guitarist sucks!" Gold capped teeth peered through his sneer.

Michael nodded, staring after the band a minute before turning back to the man. "Somebody told me you might be holding."

The guy swiped sweat from his forehead with an already grease stained once white tweed sports jacket. He snorted and nodded. "Yeah, I'm holding." A crooked smile swept across his pudgy, bristled face. "But this ain't tea or C or M!"

"H?" Michael offered.

"No. What I've got here is a Mexican delicacy. You boys ever try peyote?"

Anthony shook his head.

"Once," Michael replied, his eyes lighting up. "That junk is crazy!"

"It's great sh**."

Digging around in his trouser pockets, Michael pulled out several bills and slid them under the table. The man pulled them from Michael's grasp and counted them. He scowled.

"It's worth more than this!" the man sneered.

Michael shook his head, his lips pursed. "It's going to dry up over the next day and a half, and then NOBODY will buy it."

Shrugging, the man dropped a plastic bag on the cushion beside him. He slid across the seat, nodded his head to the pair, and disappeared into the mass of barely breathing bodies.

Michael grabbed the bag. Turning to Anthony with a ridiculous grin, he said, "You are going to LOVE this sh**!"

Anthony's head was reeling as he stared at the plastic bag. Through its clear, crinkled exteriour, he could see what looked like avocado salad inside. A grubby waitress approached, and Michael stuffed his loot under the cushion.

"You boys want anything to drink?" She snapped her gum and chewed it like cud. Her weary eyes met Anthony's.

"I'll have a coke, please," he replied. The waitress raised an eyebrow. She scrunched up her nose and laughed through it. Then turned to Michael. "And for you, sir?"

"Just a couple shots of whiskey, thanks."

The waitress wandered away.

"A COKE, Anthony?" Michael chuckled at him.

"What?" Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. He flipped open a palm to his bandmate. "I've never done peyote. How am I supposed to know how it reacts with alcohol?"

Michael snorted.

"Oh I'm oh I'm still alive  
bayhey yahi oh-  
I'm still alive..."

Anthony glanced toward the stage and watched as the lead singer leaned into his microphone and belted out the chorus.

A glass full of soda plopped down on the table space in front of him. "Your coke, sir," the waitress announced. She set down two shot glasses in front of Michael.

"Thanks," Anthony and Michael replied in unison. They stared after the frizzy haired waitress as she paced toward the bar. Then Michael reached under his cushion. He opened the baggy and handed his bandmate a fistful of the shredded herb.

"Wash these down with your soda," he instructed. Anthony accepted the herb and shoved it in his mouth. Raising his glass to his lips, he tilted his head back and took a swig of his soda. The peyote scratched against his throat, and he gagged.

"Guzzle the Coke," Michael's eyes met with Anthony's watering ones. "Makes it easier to go down."

Anthony chugged his soda until the lump in his throat slid down his esophagus. He gasped for air, sighed, and sat back in his seat. Tears lined his lower lashes.

"How come," he panted, "how come YOU had an easier time with it?"

Michael shrugged. "I didn't have a problem with it the first time either."

The sweet lull of violin music wafted through the bar, taking the edge off Anthony's horrific headache. A mellow guitar and a steady, quiet drumbeat lay just beneath. Anthony looked to the stage and watched a husky kid stream a delicate bow across a violin.

The singer flipped back his hair and crooned in his scratchy manner:

"Has our conscience shown?  
Has the sweet breeze blown?  
Has all the kindness gone?  
Hope still lingers on.  
I drink myself of newfound pity  
Sitting alone in New York City  
And I don't know why..."

"You know, he's right," Michael heaved a sigh. His index finger ran a figure eight around the tops of his shot glasses. "That guitarist DOES suck!"

Grimacing, Anthony nodded. "But the violin is beautiful though."

"I guess."

Anthony rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed his eyes shut over them and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn it! When's this sh** supposed to kick in?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't know. Ten minutes? It takes a while."

"Wish it would hurry up! I need the friggin' high!"

The guitar came to the forefront.

"So I walk upon high  
And I step to the edge  
To see my world below.  
And I laugh to myself  
As the tears roll down.  
'Cause it's the world I know.  
It's the world I know..."

Wagging his head, Michael snorted. "I don't see how they can go from playing Nirvana and Pearl Jam to playing this sh**!"

Anthony's eyes fell upon the drummer, the backwards cap sporting individual who tapped out the song's mellow beat. "What song is this anyway?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Wavy, light brown strands stuck out from beneath the cap and bopped along to the beat. Solemn eyes, stern jaw. Anthony furrowed his brows and stared at the drummer for the remainder of the song. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

"I... I think I recognise that drummer."

Michael sighed. "He's just some local loser. He looks generic enough anyway."

Anthony shook his head. "No," he murmured. "I know that guy."

"His day job could be as one of our roadies, for all we know!" Michael laughed. "It's pathetic how people dream!"

The words stung Anthony, his headache intensified.

The drummer lay aside his drumsticks as the singer slipped the microphone into place on its stand.

"Hey, folks?" he spoke into it as his fingers slipped off the mic. "We're gonna take five. If anyone cares, we'll be right back though."

"I don't' care," Michael mumbled. "You suck anyway."

Nodding toward the other side of the room, Michael announced, "I've got to go take a piss." He got to his feet. He glided across the room, through a set of double doors.

Pain clenched at Anthony's gut. He doubled over and groaned. "Damn it," he hissed. He pressed his forehead into his knees and clutched his stomach.

"Hey, man," a male voice came from behind him. "Are you all right?"

Anthony's body spasmed, and he fell out of his seat. Rolling onto his stomach, he held onto the legs of his chair. He convulsed. And toppled the chair. A solid chunk scratched inside his throat, bobbing just behind his Adam's apple. He coughed and he gagged. With every ounce of strength within his frame, he forced up the mass and spewed it onto the floor. He was spent. His head came down on a pair of sneakers, and he lay still.


	14. Blast From The Past

Anthony felt himself being swept into a pair of husky arms. Eyes dilated, wide, and darting about, he slumped against the unknown figure's chest as the individual carried him across the bar. Disgruntled murmurings erupted.

"Step aside, people!" a voice boomed by Anthony's ear, and he jittered. Frantically shifting his gaze around the room, he gasped. EVERYTHING looked like peyote! The small cactuses surrounded him, closing in, and his arms scrambled around the neck of his transport.

"Easy there, buddy," the guy murmured.

Anthony furrowed his brows over gaping eyes. The voice echoed in his head, which he shook.

A peyote shaped hand slapped against a peyote door, into a room that... somehow exuded the essence... of peyote. Anthony felt cushion beneath him and the other's limbs disappear. As the individual stepped back, Anthony's bulging eyes focused on his features. The man's knobby nose looked somewhat like a peyote plant. Anthony giggled.

"Holy sh**!" the man hissed, holding a hand over his lips. He spoke through his fingers. "You're Anthony Kiedis!"

Cocking his head to the side, Anthony nodded. He studied the guy's nose.

The man lowered his hand and sat down on the cushion by Anthony's feet. "I'm a big fan of yours. Really, your early work. I don't tend to go for pop music. But your punk... that sh** kicked ass!"

"I like how you play drums," Anthony spoke to the talking peyote plant. "You know, we used to have a drummer, and if our band still did the whole... musical instrument thing, I'd want YOU for our drummer."

The man beamed. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his flannel shirt pocket and drew a smoke from it. He patted the pockets of his jeans, then retrieved a lighter from the left. Flicking it, he lit his cigarette. He offered the pack to Anthony. "Want one?"

Anthony reached for the pack. He pulled out a smoke, and the man lit it for him. Leaning back, Anthony plopped against the cushion behind him. He drew the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. The two sat in silence.

"Sorry to hear about your bandmate's death," the man said after a while. He grimaced, his eyes met with those of the figure on the couch. Anthony blinked, and his mouth hung open. A puff of smoke billowed from his lips. He closed them again and sighed.

"Thanks, man," he voiced. Lying over his legs, he reached an ashtray across the table from him and flicked ash into it. The man pushed it to the middle of the table as Anthony sat back.

"He was a great guitar player." The man took a drag on his cigarette and looked to his guest, who stared at the floor. "Why the hell did he ever give it up?"

Anthony shrugged. "I don't know." He puffed on his smoke.

"It's a real shame he did. I would have loved to jam with him." A smirk slipped over the man's face. Thumbing the door, he said, "You saw the guitarist that my band has."

"Yeah," Anthony nodded, wide eyedly staring into space. "That kid sucks."

"No sh**!"

"Where'd you get him?"

"The singer's little brother," the man snorted and turned away. He drew on his cigarette, then glanced back at Anthony. "The kid that you had though... that kid was a natural."

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "When did you even hear him play? He wasn't on any of the records."

"Yeah, I know," the man replied, lines streaking his forehead. "But I was at a few of your concerts in 1989 and 90."

Anthony heaved a smoky sigh. "Those were f***ed up times."

Shaking his head, the man exhaled a gray puff. "What are you talking about, man? You guys rocked! Honestly, I thought it was much better than what you're doing now... or WERE doing." The man scratched the top of his head. "So what's happening to your band now? Do you guys know yet?"

"Yeah," Anthony replied, flicking ash into its tray. "We just got a replacement actually." Squinting at the peyote shaped man, he asked, "You know Nick Carter?"

The man's eyes widened. "No sh**? I thought that guy was going to start singing with his kid brother!"

"Our manager got him to change his mind." Anthony took a drag on his smoke. "Apparently."

The man sat up straight, then got to his feet. "I'm going to go grab something from the bar. You want anything?"

Anthony nodded. "Just some water would be great."

"All right." The man nodded and slipped out of the room. The heavy oak door clamored shut behind him.

Anthony glanced around. And blinked his eyes a few times. His head felt relaxed, his temples loose. But his mind raced. Thoughts pelted about in his head as he stared at his peyote feet. Furrowing his eyebrows, he drew his cigarette bearing hand to his lips, the other to his forehead. He heaved a sigh.

The door creaked open. The drummer held an Aquafina with one hand, clutching a Samuel Adam's to his side with that elbow. With his free hand, he grabbed the Boston ale. He held out the water to Anthony.

"Thanks," Anthony voiced. He put out his cigarette, then snatched the bottle from the man's grasp. He unscrewed the cap and threw back a few gulps' worth. The water washed over his palate and down the back of his throat. He smiled.

The stranger eased himself into a chair and leaned forward. He held the bottle neck against the coffee table, the ale's cap digging into its edge. Clenching his teeth, he slammed a hand into the cap, and pulled away the bottle with the other. Anthony jumped, splashing water across the collar of his ebony button-up.

"Sorry," the man murmured, and took a swig of his alcohol. His lips smacked. He lowered his hands and rested the bottle bottom on the arm of his chair. Glancing at Anthony, he asked, "So, what happened?"

Anthony settled back in his seat. "Pardon?"

"What happened to your band?" The man stared at his index finger as it tapped out a beat on the side of the bottle. "How did it go from funk to bubble gum pop?"

Shrugging, Anthony clutched his Aquafina in both hands and twiddled his thumbs. "The funk wasn't happening," he murmured with a sigh. "We tried to keep it together after Hillel died, but it was impossible." Anthony raised his brows, and scratched his nose. "When our manager, Lou Pearlman, contacted me and talked about the Chili Peppers getting back together, I was ecstatic. Until he said he wanted to completely change the band. I was so close to just blowing him off..." Anthony ran a hand over his chin. "But I didn't want it to be over. I wanted it to be different." He smirked. "You know it took him two years to make us over?"

The man grunted, and finished off his ale. He set the bottle down on the table.

"Surprisingly, it wasn't reworking our music that took so long." Anthony scratched his cheekbone and lowered his hand. "It was making over our image."

"Why?"

Patting a check with one hand, Anthony grimaced. "Plastic surgery."

The man's eyes widened and nearly fell out of his head. "No f***ing way!"

"I'm serious," Anthony threw back some water. Raising the bottle toward the stranger, he said, "Hey, I'm nearly forty years old! Why the hell do you think I look twenty?"

"I can't f***ing believe this." The man held his baseball capped head in his hands and shook it. Then he made eye contact with the Chili Pepper. "Why the hell would you agree to something like that?"

Anthony drew in a deep breath and whistled out through his teeth. "Our new bandmates were so friggin' young that, to be respected, we had to." He shrugged. "Why not?"

The man leaned forward in his chair. "Did it hurt?"

"The first time, yeah," Anthony nodded. "My face didn't even feel like mine for a full month. And the touch-ups just make me achy for a week..."

"Touch ups?"

Anthony swept the fingertips of one hand over his features. "Yeah, every few months."

Shaking his head, the man released a heavy breath through his nose. "Why'd it take so long in the first place?"

"John wouldn't do it. Michael finally convinced him, I don't know how." Anthony scraped the knuckles of one hand into his chin.

"Wasn't he only a kid when all that happened?" The man raised an eyebrow.

Anthony laughed. "Hey, we ALL looked like old men next to Kevin and Brian!" His smile faded, and he sighed. "You know, John used to have terrible nightmares after the surgery. On tour, he'd scream so loud he'd wake up the entire hotel. They toned down after a while. But he still has them. The last one was a few weeks ago... Did I say 'has'?" Anthony scratched his cheekbone. "I meant to say 'had'."

WHOOSH!

The door swung open, and Anthony looked to it. Stooped at the door with puffy eyes was Michael. Anthony squinted at his bandmate's lips. Were they somehow bigger?

"There you are!" The thick-lipped Chili Pepper exclaimed, and rushed into the room. His blue eyes bulged at Anthony. "Damn! People were saying you'd passed out or ODed and that somebody took you to the hospital!"

Shrugging, Anthony replied, "No, but sh**! That was a crazy trip!"

"What the hell were you on anyway?" the man questioned.

"Peyote."

The man raised a corner of his lips. "Seems to be the thing around here lately."

Michael scratched his head. Staring at the Chili Pepper, the man narrowed his eyes. Then they lit up.

"Sh**, I recognise you! Michael Balzary!"

Nodding, Michael extended an open palm to the stranger. "Yeah. And you're..."

The man accepted Michael's outstretched hand in his own and shook it. "Chad Smith."

Anthony bolted upright, pain shooting across his forehead. He stared at the man, into his solid, intelligent eyes. His heart jumped. "Chad!"

Chad raised an eyebrow and looked to Michael.

"You know this guy?" the Chili Pepper pointed to Chad.

Bobbing his head insanely, Anthony exclaimed, "He's our drummer..." He clutched his chest, and drew a hand to his head. "What the hell is going on?"

Chad looked to Michael. Tossing a hand in Anthony's direction, he asked, "What the f*** kind of sh** is he on? I thought he said peyote."

"It is!" Michael draped an arm around his bandmate. "Come on, Anthony," he murmured. "You've had a long night and a bad trip. Let's get back to the hotel."

Anthony shook his head furiously. Staring at the drummer, he exclaimed, "Chad! Chad, tell him!"

Chuckling, Chad wagged his head. "Buddy, listen to your friend. Go home and get some rest."

Michael pulled Anthony to his feet and tugged at his left arm. He dragged the Chili Pepper toward the door.

"What the f***!" Anthony exclaimed, leaning away from Michael's grasp. "SOMEBODY's got to remember! Please!"

Anthony watched Chad's raised-brow expression disappear as a door closed over his view.


	15. Slipping Supports

The sun ascended over the cityscape, framing a modest hotel. Its rays swept across the side of the building and illuminated a set of beige blinds. Beams crept beneath them.

On the other side, hardwood floors spanned beneath a bed. Suitcases and clothes strewn across its floral sheets, a crumpled sports jacket dangled on its edge, threatening to slip away. A figure sat cross-legged on the floor, huddled by an end table. His elbows rested on his knees, and he draped his torso over his legs. With one hand, he propped up his head; with the other, he clutched a powder blue telephone receiver.

"Hello?" a gruff voice came over the receiver. The figure stiffened, his eyes widened.

"Dad?" he spoke. Annunciating each syllable clearly, he added, "Hi, it's Anthony."

A deep sigh hissed in Anthony's ear. He furrowed his brows and closed his eyes. "What the hell do YOU want?"

Anthony opened his eyes. He bit his lower lip, then released it to say, "I need help..."

"Then why not go to Lou?" The words shot through the earpiece and stung Anthony's brain. He cringed. "I though HE's your f***ing father now!"

"No!" Anthony protested. "Dad, listen! Something's wrong here..."

"I'll tell you what's wrong! Selling your soul to Lou Pearlman! Worse than selling your soul to the devil himself! He's your pimp now, boy! And you're a disgrace!"

Tears flooded Anthony's eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wagged his head. "I'm trying to get away from him."

"I'll believe it when I see it!" Blackie's voice hollered. CLICK!

Anthony hung his head. He clattered and clanged the receiver into its cradle. The tears in his eyes spilled down his cheeks, pattering on the floor space in front of his legs. Tiny puddles formed. He hung an arm across his shins. Tracing a line through the puddles with his fingers, he connected them.

He crab-walked across the hardwood floor, pulling himself along with his hands. His bottom dragged behind his outstretched palms, his stockinged feet swishing last. His fingers eventually brushed against the cottony hem of a comforter. He climbed backwards into the bed and flopped onto the scattered clothing. His left foot landed inside one suitcase; his head smacked against another. He groaned. With a fluid swoop of the arm, the suitcase by his head lunged into a wall and slumped to the floor. Anthony sighed and closed his eyes.

Sunshine seeping into the room intensified. He was no longer in the dark. But he was alone, alone in a strange world. He drew his hands to his face, his fingers sensing the tensioned temples beneath them.

"How the f*** do I get out of this mess?" he muttered. He dug his heels into the mattress. His back stiffened. And his palms dampened.

CHIRP!

A bold of shock shot through his frame, and he dangled a hand off the side of the bed.

CHIRP!

His fingers wrapped around a black Nokia cell phone. His thumb hit the button at the top, left hand corner as he raised the phone to his ear.

BEEP!

"Hello?" Anthony mumbled.

"Ant?" a sweet, feminine voice breezed through the phone lines.

"Hi, Brit," he breathed, then froze. And image of Britney with Justin Timberlake flashed into his head, and he knew it to be true. Fresh tears filled his eyes as he heaved a sigh.

"How are you holding up, honey?"

Anthony swallowed hard. "I'm okay," he lied.

He heard her sigh. "I... I just can't believe he's gone."

"Me neither, baby." The term of endearment slipped out. Anthony's heart fluttered about, and he held a hand to his chest. Clenching shut his eyes, he asked, "Where are you right now?"

Britney's breath preceded her speech. "I just got back from touring, actually. I was wondering if you'd be wanting to go out tonight."

The muscles surrounding Anthony's eyes relaxed, and he nodded. "That's good, 'cause I'm really wanting to talk with you."

"Um...," her voice replied. "That might be tough. I was thinking of going to a concert."

"Yeah?" His eyes fluttered open.

"But we don't have to go!" she rushed on. "I mean, not if you don't feel up to it. It just seemed like something you'd like and a good way to get away from everything that's been going on for a while."

Reflexively, his lips swooped into a smile. "That's a beautiful idea. What's the concert?"

"It's this guitarist. He's not really well known, but he was with the band Jane's Addiction..."

Anthony's eyes bulged in their sockets, and he bolted upright in bed.

"You like Jane's Addiction, right?" Britney asked.

While nodding profusely, Anthony realized that his girlfriend couldn't see him. "Yeah," he rasped, then cleared his throat. "Are you talking about Dave Navarro?"

"Yeah!" her voice bounced. "Are you familiar with his solo work? Surely you've heard his single on the radio."

"Yeah." He ran his fingers through his moppy mane and grabbed a fistful of hair. "I've got his album... I think."

Pause.

"Okay." He heard her tentatively reply. "Well yesterday I was talking with Carmen Elektra... did you know she and Dave Navarro are engaged?"

Anthony scratched his head. "I... don't... know."

"They are. Carmen and I got talking. I told her how I was flying out here, and she said he's playing here tonight. She said he'd love for us to hang around backstage with him. We can watch the show from there too. So are you interested?"

Rubbing the underside of his chin, Anthony exclaimed, "Yeah, sounds great!"

"I can't wait to see you, Ant!" Britney's words gushed through the lines. "I've missed you SO much! You know that I love you, honey, right?"

"I love you too, baby," Anthony smiled, nestling the Nokia to his ear.

"I hate to say this, but I have to go for now. I'm due over at this radio station." Britney's lips smacked. "I'll pick you up at six o'clock, okay?"

"Sure thing, sweets!" Anthony replied. "Can't wait 'til then!"

"I love you!"

"Bet I love you more!"

"No," the retort was accompanied by a giggle. "That's impossible."

Anthony grinned. "No, I believe that it IS possible, and that's the way it is."

More giggling. "See you later, Anthony!"

He hit the power button. BEEP! Then flung the phone bearing hand over the side of the bed. He opened his fingers, and the Nokia clunked to the floor. He sighed. With a goofy smile plastered across his lips, he closed his eyes. A soft, gentle face played across his mind, deep brown eyes framed by dark, thick lashes. Full, rosy lips curved upward, unveiling gleaming perfect teeth. Anthony's smile broadened. Then waned as a plump cheeked boy with tight curly hair appeared beside the girl's image. Anthony grunted. What the hell did Justin Timberlake have to do with Britney?


	16. "Is This War You're Waging?"

The knob of the door into Anthony's hotel room turned half a revolution, then paused.

CREAK!

The door slid open a few inches, revealing a cringing face. Dark eyes peered through shocks of bleached blond strands, and scanned left to right, then left again.

CREAK!

Another few inches. Another cringe. A patent leather clad foot stepped out, toe firmly planted before heel, and fingers slid along the doorframe. Knuckles rose over the fingers. A wrist, a navy sports jacketed forearm, elbow, bicep. And shoulder. The figure slipped his chiseled frame into the corridor, the second foot joining the first.

A hand pressed against the lily bearing wallpaper, its bumpy surface tickling his palm as he tiptoed down the hallway. Each step set down more gently than the last.

The figure slithered down the hallway, eyes fixed ahead. An elevator awaited him, its silver façade gleaming as the sun's rays focused in upon it. A faint halo surrounded it.

"Hey, Anthony!"

Anthony whirled around, his gaze falling upon a pair of crescent shaped eyes. Glossy blue ones that blinked as fists raised and rubbed them. The boxers sporting figure lowered a hand and gestured toward Anthony's frame. "You're ready to go already?"

Moving his head up and down, Anthony stared at the carpet and shuffled his feet. He raised his head to meet the other's stare. "Sure am, Bri."

Brian gave his bandmate a crooked, weary smile. "You headed for breakfast? Could you wait for me? I'll be ready in a couple minutes."

He nodded. When Brian retreated back inside his room, Anthony heaved a sigh. His eyelids hung heavy and shut, then lifted again.

The elevator. Still silver. Still gleaming. Still mere feet away. Anthony's left foot raised and lowered a step ahead. Right foot next took a step. Each stride was longer than the last. His arm rose. His hand reached for the panel beside the elevator. Index finger extended, all others folded in, it closed in on a neon green "\/". Inches... centimetres...

"Where are you going?"

Anthony froze. Eyes fixed on that glowing button, he replied, "Breakfast." Gazing over his shoulder, his eyes met with a pair of cold, slated ones. In an even tone, he asked, "You coming?"

Tapping foot drew Anthony's attention to the other's black dress shoes. He glanced over the man's tailored olive slacks, over his open sports jacket and the jet silk blouse peering out its lapel. Pursing his lips, the individual shook his head. "You're not going to breakfast," he stated, narrowing his eyes. "Damn it, Anthony! Where are you going?"

Anthony threw his hands up in the air. Heaving a sigh, eyes steady on the other's, he breathed, "I'm leaving, Michael."

"Sh**!" Michael hissed, stomping his foot. His shoulders tensioned. "You know you can't leave! You know we need to be on our way to Seattle in a couple hours!" He raised a hand to a temple and wagged his head. "You know, this is just what I need, coming off a high so rough."

Anthony took a deep breath and released it. His index finger extended, he leaned into the button. The car within the elevator shaft roared to life.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"I'm going to go see Britney," Anthony answered, watching as Michael lowered his hand and glared at him. And took a step forward.

"You are not screwing this up for us," Michael growled through gritting teeth. "Not so you can spend time with that bitch. Now John f***ed up enough for all of us. Don't make matters worse."

The rattling behind the elevator door increased. Anthony glanced at it, then returned his attention to his bandmate.

Michael's face scrunched into a sneer. "Anthony, I swear..."

DING!

The elevator door opened. Anthony paced backwards, into the car.

"Grrr!" The guttural sound made Michael's neck vibrate. Curling his fingers into claws, he barreled into Anthony. The two toppled to the floor. A CRACK! Resounded as the base of Anthony's skull smashed into the side of the elevator door. Michael latched onto his neck, digging thumbs into his throat. Anthony squinted at the layers of metal over Michael's head, shoving his arms and legs into the other's chest. His limbs weakening, the ceiling spinning. He tossed his head from side to side and gagged. "Flea!" he managed to get out as his limbs gave out. His head flopped to the side.

"Michael! Michael!" He heard Brian's voice faintly over his throbbing eardrums. Hands lifted from his neck, and he gulped all the oxygen the air would yield. Arms reached for Anthony. They helped him to his feet.

Brian brushed the dust from his friend's tousled hair. Puppy eyed and open mouthed, he asked, "What in the world is going on?" He turned to Michael.

The Chili Pepper flung a finger in Anthony's direction. "The bastard's taking off!"

"Why, Anthony?" Brian pleaded. He gazed upon his friend with glossy eyes. "Why would you leave us?"

Shaking his head, Anthony heaved a sigh. He closed his eyes. "I just can't perform tonight."

Michael threw his arms in the air and snorted. "Well that's convenient!"

Brian bit his lower lip. "But I thought you like Nick. Why don't you want to perform with us?"

"I do, Bri!" Anthony exclaimed, slinging an arm over Brian's shoulder. "I love all of you. But... it's, it's not want so much as need..."

"F***!" Michael scowled. He paced around the corridor, across the floor space in front of Anthony. "Not this sh** again! What?" He glared at Anthony. Waving his arms over his head, he asked, "Are the mystical creative f***ing forces out of whack again, Mr. Frusciante? Are we screwing everything up for you?"

Anthony wagged his head. His arm slipped off Brian's shoulder. "It has nothing to do with that." His eyes fluttered shut. "You wouldn't understand," he mumbled under his breath.

"We might understand! Please," Brain begged. "At least try to tell us!"

Anthony rubbed his chin, then allowed the arm to drop to his side. "All right," he sighed. "I don't know how, but somehow, sh..., ah, stuff got screwed up, and I ended up in this reality." He trained his eyes on Brian's, whose were frozen upon his. "I don't belong here."

The boy's eyes filled with tears. "Really? Why not?"

"This is a load of sh**," Michael huffed. He pointed down the corridor. "I'm just gonna get Lou! He'll set you straight!" He marched down the hallway and slipped into a room. The door slammed behind him. Anthony trembled.

Brian stood chewing on his lower lip and, through slitted glossy eyes, gazed upon Anthony. "I don't understand."

Pounding the elevator down button, Anthony said, "Sorry, Bri. I can't stay to explain it to you. I have to get out of here."

"I know." Brian gulped. He paused, and the two listened to the car ascending the elevator shaft. "Just be careful, Anthony! Don't let Lou catch you! Or..."

DING!

The elevator door opened.

"I know."

Brian hugged him.

"KIEDIS!" A voice boomed behind them. Both jolted, and Anthony scurried into the elevator car. His eyes met with Lou's. He slammed a finger into the 'door close' button. Again and again.

Lou rushed for the door, his chunky legs jiggling as he neared the Chili Pepper. Anthony stared with wide eyes as the door closed in his manager's face.


	17. "Oops, I Did It Again..."

Sandwiched between a green Dodge Neon and a silver Honda Civic sat a black stretch limousine. Inside, a slender blond tapped her long fingernails against an armrest and gazed out the window. She scratched her bare midsection, just below a pale pink terry cloth halter top. And fought with a form fitting leather miniskirt to uncross and to recross her nylonned legs.

The limo inched forward several feet. The girl sighed.

The man beside her shifted in his seat. Blond icicles dripped over his eyes as he leaned over his legs and stared at the maroon carpeted floor. "Britney, there's something I need to tell you."

"What is it," Anthony?" she asked, head turning. Shining strands of sunshine cascaded over her shoulder. Her painted eyes met with his. "Is everything okay, Anthony?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, and bit at his upper lip. The lie stung his brain. He shook his head. "No, I'm not."

She wrapped a delicate arm around his bicep. The other she raised, and laid her palm across his forehead. "Are you feeling okay, honey? You feel awfully warm, and your eyes look kind of cloudy."

He wagged his head. "I just didn't sleep last night."

"Why not?"

'I was high as a kite,' came to Anthony's mind. He bit at his lower lip and shrugged. "I just didn't."

"Oh!" Britney cooed and flung her arms around his left bicep. She nestled her head on his shoulder. Dark, glossy eyes peered up at him. "Are you feeling up to the concert then? We don't have to go if you don't want to."

Anthony gazed into the pop singer's eyes. His heart fluttered. A goofy smile played across his lips. With his free arm, he reached for Britney's face. His fingers caressed her cheek. They traveled toward her jaw, and swooped beneath her chin. His thumb brushed across her rose petal lips. "Baby," he whispered, "I want to be with you."

Britney grinned. She untucked one of her hands and drew it to Anthony's fingers. Her nails danced across his knuckles.

Lowering his thumb, Anthony leaned toward Britney and closed his eyes. He gently kissed her. As he withdrew his lips from hers, he opened his eyes to intense, dark ones. They stared into one another's eyes. Gazing, peering... searching. Anthony drew close to her and kissed her again. This time, his mouth lingered on hers, his tongue running along the bottom of her upper lip. Her lips parted. The inside of his cheek stung as a cinnamon laden tongue rhythmically lapped against it, then tingled. He eased his left arm out of her grasp, wrapped it around her back, and pulled her closer to his body. She laid her now idle hand flat against his chest.

Anthony's fingers dug deep into Britney's shoulder blade, and circled it. His hand explored her back, over the fluffy terry cloth. It ran over a distinct line. He drew his fingers toward her spine. His nails scratched at a clasp, just beneath the shirt. He unhooked it.

Britney caressed Anthony's cheek as she sucked on his upper lip, her tongue massaging its underside.

Tracing Britney's spine, Anthony ran his hand down her back. He hooked his fingers around the hem of her halter top. Inch by inch, he drew it up her back.

They jerked to the right as the limo skidded around a corner. It slid to a halt. Through the tinted glass in front of them, a muffled voice announced, "We're here, Ms. Spears."

Britney sat back. "Darn!" she muttered. She reached her arms around her back and hooked the clasp on her bra. Then ran her fingers through her hair. Gazing at Anthony, she grimaced. "It figures, doesn't it."

"Damn straight!" he exclaimed. He drew a hand to his lips. "I'm sorry, baby," he spoke through his fingers, eyes wide.

Britney giggled and shook her head. "It's okay, Anthony," she assured him. She lowered his hand and ran a thumb over his lips. He kissed her.

"We'll get back to this later," he grinned.

The door beside Britney opened, and she stepped out onto the curb. Her ebony platforms clunked against the sidewalk. Anthony slid across the seat and jumped out of the limo. His eyes widened as they scanned the cityscape. Black graffiti-ridden buildings lined either side of the street, crammed into place, allowing no space. Anthony couldn't find one shard of colour in this shades-of-gray neighbourhood. They had entered Kenna's "Hellbent" video.

"Dave Navarro's playing HERE?!" Anthony exclaimed, looking around.

Gesturing toward a street sign, Britney nodded. "Yeah, this is 18th street." She scratched her head. "This IS strange."

A husky young man closed the limo door behind Anthony. "Ms. Spears," he said. "He's performing at that club over there." He pointed down the street, to a corner that glowed in the approaching dusk. Painted across the white washed side of a building was a voluptuous red head, her face about a story tall. The cowering building beneath her covered the lower half of her body. Fiery hair waved in an imaginary breeze. Beneath her long, thick eyelashes, dark, knowing eyes flirted with Anthony. Her full, crimson lips pouted at him. The shirt painted on her body accentuated her chest, exposing about a foot of cleavage. Across it were the words "Madam's Organ", each word outlining a breast.

"Ant, don't forget your disguise!" Britney handed him a pair of green framed glasses. A bulbous rubber nose hung from the middle.

Anthony snorted. He put on the glasses and pulled the fake nose over his own. Its latex interiour itched against his skin. He scrunched up his nose.

Clutching a fuzzy brown wig, Britney leaned toward him. She plopped it on his head and tucked his real hair beneath it.

"Do I have to wear the 'fro tonight?" Anthony whined with a smirk.

Britney smiled back. "It's not a 'fro! This is the one you left with me, so deal with it!"

"Yes, dear."

Britney's teeth shown through her lips. She leaned forward again and kissed his fake nose. "You're such a cutie!" she gushed.

Chuckling, he retorted, "It's the nose, I know."

The driver retreated back into the limo. As he drove off, Britney and Anthony strolled toward the gigantic red head, holding hands.

Anthony monitored the sidewalk as they plodded along. Closer to the venue, he saw goths and punks leaning against a wall. Some were chatting away to those around them; others just stared at the ground. The line led to a rickety porch. Wooden beams strained beneath its overhang, everything sporting splinters. Britney and Anthony creaked up the steps.

A burly hand shot out from beneath the darkened alcove. "You're going to have to wait in line," a bass voice demanded, "just like everybody else."

Britney shifted into a patch of light. "We have backstage seats," she replied.

The man's chuckle made the floor beneath them tremble. "Yeah, right! And I'm Carson Daly!" He extended a grim reaperesque finger toward the crowds. "Just go stand in line!"

Britney heaved a sigh, and Anthony reached for his nose. He pulled it off his face and eased past her, into the light.

"No f***ing way!" the man's voice rose to a baritone. "You're..."

"Please don't announce it," Britney broke in, furrowing her brows.

"Sorry," the man whispered his reply. "Come on in!" he hissed. "I'll escort you backstage myself."

Britney and Anthony slipped into the porch's shadows. A rectangular light up ahead illuminated a husky form, and they followed it. As they neared, the light divided into shapes and colours, shining through the glass of a door's window. The figure opened the door to a larger glowing rectangle.

Anthony felt Britney press into his side as his eyes explored the club. A custodian scooted into his field of vision, clutching the wooden handle of a mop and pushing it across the floor. Its gray bristles swished against the hardwood floor. To Anthony's left, two men and a woman scurried around behind a bar. He counted seven beers on tap. He scanned toward the right, until his eyes gazed straight ahead. A couple hundred feet away were black tables with T-shirts adorning the wall space over them.

Somebody coughed. Glancing to his right, Anthony found a half naked man sitting on the edge of the stage. Jet strands framed his forehead and streaked across his eyes as he leaned over his legs, where he cradled a white Strat. Anthony's jaw went slack. He stared at the man, at the downward gazing eyes, at the trim moustache and bushy goatee, at the nipple rings, silver chain, and black tattoos. Anthony gaped until the man looked up and gaped back. Deep, dark eyes bore through him. Thick brown brows curved into arches over them, intensifying the stare. Without breaking eye contact, the man set aside his guitar and got to his feet. And swaggered toward Anthony. Narrowing his eyes, he held out a hand to the Chili Pepper.

"Anthony Kiedis," he nodded the question, and pointed to him with the other hand. "Dave Navarro. Nice to meet you."

Raising his brows, Anthony raised the arm holding his disguise. He pinched it between his pinky and ring fingers, and shook Dave's hand. "Um... hi."

Dave turned to Britney and smiled. "Carmen told me you were coming." He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his black leather pants. His fingers pointed toward the laces crisscrossing the front. "Glad you two could make it."

"It's too bad she couldn't be here though," Britney grimaced.

Dave nodded, his eyes darting to the floor. "Yeah. But she'll be there for my Seattle show in a couple days."

Anthony stared into the guitarist's eyes. Dave turned to him, furrowing his brows. He sighed through his nose and pointed at the bar. "Let's go get some drinks."

"Oh," Britney's eyes widened. She drew a hand to her lips. "I'm underage."

"They have sodas and fruit juice too," Dave replied. Then shrugged. "Or you can have a beer if you want. Just get whatever you want. It's okay."

As they sauntered toward the bar, Britney announced, "I'll just get a Pepsi."

"Okay, Britney. Anthony, what do you want?"

Anthony hopped onto a bar stool. Britney settled beside him, and Dave slid into the one on her other side. Anthony glanced at the labels on the taps. "Summer ale."

Nodding, Dave looked to the approaching bartender. "A Pepsi and two summer ales, please."

The bartender nodded and turned around.

Propping his elbows on the bar, Anthony buried his head in his hands. Thoughts spiraled through his mind, whirling and turning and spinning and swirling... his temples ached, his brain screamed for peace.

"You tired, man?"

Anthony looked over his fingers to find Dave watching him. He nodded.

"Ant didn't sleep last night," Britney explained. She rubbed Anthony's back.

"There's a cot backstage," Dave threw a thumb over his shoulder. "You can take a nap if you want."

The bartender laid down three glasses in front of Dave, who flicked him a twenty. Dave distributed the drinks.

Frost covered Anthony's mug, save five spots where he had held it. He drew spirals on the glass with his fingers. He looked past Britney, to Dave. "I wouldn't want to miss your performance."

"The concert doesn't even start for another two hours," Dave snorted. "And then there's an opening act. That's time for a nap."

Anthony's eyelids drooped at the word 'nap'. He licked his lips. "I guess it would do me good."

"You really should, Ant," Britney hugged his bicep. "You look really tired."

"Let's go then. You can take your drink." Dave jumped off his barstool and stood over Britney's shoulder. "I'll be right back, okay? Don't let them take my beer."

Britney grinned. "I won't." She squeezed Anthony's arm. "See you in a few hours, honey. Have a good nap!"

"Thanks, baby." He kissed her. Mug in hand, he followed Dave toward the stage. As the distance between Anthony and Britney grew, his head cleared. One thought remained.

'Dave was a Chili Pepper.'


	18. "Dream Of Californication"

Anthony stared after Dave as they waded across the backstage area. They weaved around amps and equipment boxes, toward stage left.

"Uh," Anthony uttered, then licked his lips. Dave glanced over at him. Just as Anthony tripped over the neck of an electric blue Ibanez. He stumbled and fell into Dave's arms.

The guitarist cracked a smile. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Anthony stood up straight.

"You must be really overtired."

Dave steppe dup to a door and turned its brass knob. He pushed it open. They stepped into the darkness. Shadows of boxes outlined every wall. And, amidst them, the form of a cot.

CLICK!

The boxes became brown, the cot a pale blue. Anthony stood in the middle of the room and stared ahead.

"I'll come wake you up before my set."

Anthony turned around, and watched Dave's frame disappearing behind the closing door.

"Dave, wait!" Anthony exclaimed. The door swung open again, to a furrow browed Dave. "Can I talk to you a second?"

Cupping a hand over his goatee, Dave ran a thumb across his chin. He shrugged. "Okay." He slapped his arms to his sides and reentered the room. A shock of black hair dripped down his face, through the centre of his left eye. He flipped his head back and seated himself on a box.

Anthony sat down on the edge of the cot, his eyes steady on Dave's. He stretched the muscles in his face. "What I'm going to say..." He took in a heavy breath and released it. "I'm either going to sound insane or full of sh**. Please just hear me out, keep an open mind."

Nodding, Dave rested a hand on each knee.

Anthony ran his thumb and index finger across the glands in his throat. Even breaths. Eyes searching Dave's, only finding an overwhelming aura of bewilderment. He lowered his hand, "You believe in paranormal sh**, don't you, Dave?"

Dave's head raised and lowered. "I believe in the supernatural, if that's what you're asking."

"Yeah, yeah," Anthony spoke evenly. "Something like that. Do you believe in alternate realities?"

Dave smiled and snorted. Then scratched his head. "I guess it's possible."

"It is possible." Anthony shifted where he sat. He rubbed beneath his eye. "You remember to keep an open mind, right?"

"Yeah."

Anthony nodded. And sighed. "I'm..." He licked his lips. "I'm from, like, an alternate reality. I don't understand how I got here, or really what's going on. But I do know that I don't belong here."

Raising his eyebrows, Dave stared. Silence permeated the air for a minute.

"Where I'm from though," Anthony continued. He gestured toward Dave with a head-butt. "You were once a Chili Pepper."

Dave smirked. "I was? During the punk rock or bubble gum pop era?"

"There was no bubble gum pop era."

Leaning forward, Dave scratched the back of his neck.

"What really happened..." Anthony moved his hands as he spoke. "John quit the band in 1992, and you replaced him about a year later."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't that after you stopped using instruments?"

Closing his eyes, Anthony shook his head. "That never happened. Brian and Kevin were never part of the Chili Peppers. They're part of a boy band, the Backstreet Boys. Their songs... they play what the Chilies do in this reality. But, where I'm from, we continued to write our own songs. And, when you were in the band, you wrote songs with us too."

"I was a Chili Pepper."

"Yes."

Dave stared at Anthony, then checked his watch. "F***! I gotta get out to sound check! Can we continue this later?"

"Yeah," Anthony nodded, slouching. He watched Dave stand up and wander to the door.

The guitarist's fingers lingered on the knob. Holding a hand to his head, he shook it. "Something about what you said...," he murmured, then turned back to Anthony. His eyes widened. "Sounds f***ing familiar."

Anthony sat up straight, his eyes illuminated. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Dave breathed. His fingers slipped from the doorknob. "Sh**, yeah! Damn, this is twisted."

Mouth dropping open, a smile crossed Anthony's face.

"But listen." The guitarist gestured toward the door. "I really do need to get out to sound check. But let's talk about this after the concert, okay?"

Anthony nodded. Dave reached for the doorknob again and turned it. "Sh**," he murmured under his breath. He flicked off the light and left the room.

Pulse racing, Anthony stared at the closed door. He lay back in the cot. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and shut his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw Michael... no, Flea, to the left of him. His half naked form looked digital, like that of a video game character. John Frusciante stood across from him, Chad Smith to his right, both appearing as Flea. A cube hovered between the four, mirrors on all sides. They each drove a fist into it. The glass parted as water and enveloped their hands. A brilliant light flashed. As it waned, Anthony's eyes focused on his smiling companions. Their flesh and their features appeared real again...

Real...

The image faded to black.

Anthony stood in the darkness. He extended his arms in front of him and ventured forward. He could feel the air in his hands. Moisture collected over his palms. A chill swept up his spine, and he shivered. Flexing his fingers, he stepped deeper into the abyss. Until he no longer felt floor beneath his feet. Or anything. His heart skipped, and he clenched his eyes shut. And gulped. Stepping deeper.

An energy force swept over him as a dry rushing wave from the sea. It slapped against his chest, and he stopped. He stood in the nothingness.

"I do dream you," a voice sang in a whisper, the tune echoing around him. "Allow me - , to believe you - , are the real me."

Anthony squinted in vain. Gaping, he furrowed his eyebrows. "John?"

"Hello, Anthony."

An ember flickered into existence before Anthony's eyes. It shown upon the white candlestick beneath it, its brass stand, the wiry fingers clutching it...

And a face. Anthony glanced over its features, at creases around full lips, at the sunburst of fine lines around weary eyes. Shadows crossed a forehead, just below shaggy locks.

Anthony smiled. "Hi, John."

"Anthony, there is something you need to know," gravely John replied.

Anthony sighed and nodded. "I know. I'm stuck in some kind of alternate reality..."

"No!" John exclaimed, shaking his head. His eyes widened. "This isn't a reality! This isn't real! It's all in your head!"

Anthony's jaw went slack.

John swallowed hard. "You're dying, Anthony."

"I'm..." Anthony wagged his head. "I'm WHAT?!"

"You wished for something. You made a wish tonight. Can you remember what you asked for?"

Closing his eyes, Anthony saw himself laying on a sleeping bag, beneath the night sky. He watched himself gaze into the stars and say, "I wish they didn't see us the way they do. I wish they respected us."

Anthony's eyes flew open. "Oh sh**! So... so the only way they'd respect us is if we were a boy band?"

"No, Anthony." John heaved a sigh. He looked downward before returning his attention to his friend. "That's what Aquarius wants you to think."

"Aquarius?"

"Yeah! When you made your wish, Aquarius answered it. He's the force that made you believe you're somewhere else. But you're not. Anthony, don't you know the truth?"

Anthony shook his head and stared into John's eyes.

"They only respect you when you're dead."

Taking a deep breath, Anthony closed his mouth and bit his lower lip. He exhaled through his nose.

"You're getting your wish," John continued, wide eyed. "Now Aquarius is becoming more distant. Unless you can reach him again and reverse this, you're going to die. And then the rest of us."

A breeze swept through the two, and blew out the candle.

"I answer these questions now," John's voice whispered the song into the pitch blackness. "As to why I'm the only one - , who carries answers to their fathers - , who carries gray sky to the sun..."

Anthony bolted upright in the cot. Tossing the blankets aside, he scrambled to his feet. And raced for the door.


	19. "Otherside"

Anthony reached for the door. It swung open and smacked him in the head. He stumbled back. Then tripped over a box. He fell backward with an "Oof!"

The figure at the door gasped. CLICK! Lights flooded the room.

"Anthony!" Britney exclaimed. She dropped to her knees and put a hand behind the wincing Chili Pepper's head. "Oh! I am so sorry! I thought you were asleep!"

Scowling, Anthony opened his eyes. His face softened as he gazed into Britney's worry-struck stare. "It's okay, baby," he assured her in a hushed tone. She helped him to his feet.

"We need to get you some ice!" she insisted, eyes wide and glossy.

"No, it's okay."

"But honey, your head!" she cried, embracing him. She led him out of the room, to a chair just outside the door. Chatter filled the backstage area, emanating from the audience beyond. Anthony could barely hear Britney say, "Here! Sit down and I'll go get it."

Anthony eased himself into the chair. He ran his fingers over his left temple, over a swelling bump. He winced again. "Okay, baby."

She kissed him and took off in a clunky jog. As she drew further away from him, Anthony's eyes widened.

"Sh**!" he exclaimed, and got to his feet. He soared across the backstage, maneuvering around equipment boxes, amps, and instruments. His foot caught on an electric blue Ibanez. He cried out as he hit the floor.

"F***!" he exclaimed. He threw the guitar clear across the stage, and picked himself off the floor. His left ankle throbbed. It gave out beneath him, and he fell again.

"Damn it!"

Clawing a box, Anthony got to his feet. He panted, his breath catching in his throat. He coughed. Leaning on boxes along the way, Anthony hopped across the stage on his good foot. As he neared the other side of the stage, he spotted Dave, talking to an individual obstructed by an amplifier. Anthony stared at the _Constance_ tattoo across Dave's lower back as the guitarist spoke.

"He came in here saying he's from an alternate reality." Dave scratched his head. "He was out of his mind. I didn't know what to do, so I just played along."

Anthony lowered his head and heaved a sigh.

"Do you know where he is now?" a voice from behind the amp asked. A gruff voice. An all too familiar voice...

Lou.

Anthony gulped, and ducked behind the box. He peered over it.

Dave rested his hands on his hips. "Yeah, he went to take a nap. He's in a room backstage."

Footsteps. Dave plodded past him, arms swinging at his sides. Marching at the guitarist's heels, Lou sported a sneer.

"You're going to get him into rehab, right?" Dave asked. "You know he needs help."

Lou snorted. "We'll take care of him," he muttered.

As they walked toward the room, Anthony eased himself to his feet. With pained steps, he limped toward the edge of the stage. He heard a door creak open behind him.

"Anthony?" Dave's voice followed. "He's not in here."

Anthony glanced over his shoulder in time to see Dave close the door.

"Damn it!" Lou snarled. "Then where is he?"

Anthony watched as Dave shrugged and slapped his arms to his sides. He continued to drag himself along, away from them. His injured foot caught on something hard. And he crashed to the floor. He glanced at the snare, at that same damn electric blue Ibanez. Then looked up.

Lou grabbed his collar and flipped him onto his back.

"What the hell is your problem, Kiedis?" Lou spat the words in Anthony's face. "Damn you!"

Anthony shook beneath Lou's grasp, beneath his glare. The bulky man tightened his grip on the Chili Pepper's collar.

"We had to cancel tonight's show because of you! How dare you, you selfish, worthless piece of sh**!"

"Lou, I..."

Lou raised Anthony by the collar and slammed the singer's head into the floor. Anthony's head spun. "Shut the hell up, Kiedis! Look, I am tired of this!" In a guttural hiss, he added, "Frusciante got off easy. But you're going to pay."

"Hey!"

Lou turned around. Anthony's eyes clouded as he looked past Lou, at Dave's narrow glare.

"I'm calling security if you don't get the f*** off him right now!"

Releasing Anthony's collar, Lou stood up straight. The singer's eyelids fluttered, then opened. He focused his failing vision on the two staring one another down to his left.

"You say something, punk?" Lou snarled.

Anthony rolled onto his stomach. With every ounce of strength in his frame, he pushed off his arms and climbed a box to get to his feet.

"I think it's time you left, old man," Dave growled back. Thunder rolled outside, close by to be audible over the buzzing crowds awaiting Dave to step onstage.

Anthony limped toward the edge of the stage. And eased himself off it.

SLAP!

He whirled around. Dave doubled over and crumpled to the floor. Equipment boxes hid his form. Lou slowly turned to the Chili Pepper. And sneered.

Wide eyed, Anthony dragged himself away from the stage, into the crowds huddled around it.

"Hey!" he heard a feminine voice exclaim. "Isn't that Anthony Kiedis?"

"Sell out!" another exclaimed.

"Let's get him!"

Gasping, Anthony pushed for the door. The crowds enveloped him. Hands clawed at his body, and he pushed them away from him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Lou wading through the mass of bodies, closing in on him. Anthony broke from the grabbing hands and clamored toward the back of the building. He dare not look over his shoulder.

His forearms slapped into the back door, and it flew open. Thunder erupted over head, rain pelting the ground around him. It washed over him, speckling his suit. He hopped and limped into the alley, the mob roaring over his shoulder. He sank to his knees.

"I wish," he cried into the night, staring into the stars with arms open and raised to the skies. "I wish everything were like it was, before I ever wished."

Thunder rumbled.

"There he is!' someone over his shoulder exclaimed.

"TAKE IT BACK, AQUARIUS!" Anthony shouted.

A star overhead grew and intensified. It shot from the sky. Slamming into his body, it tossed him to the pavement. Anthony jolted and spasmed, his breath catching in his throat. Steam rose from his flesh. And he passed out.


	20. "Stronger"

Anthony felt a pair of lips over his own, and that individual's breath puffing into his lungs. His heart skipped. He opened his eyes and gazed upon a dark, scruffy haired individual. John's hand stung beneath Anthony's chin. The guitarist turned to the right.

"Check his pulse!" John exclaimed.

Fingers singed Anthony's wrist. They shifted around, then pressed down. He winced and gasped for air. John gasped with him.

"He's breathing!" John's jaw hung open. He leaned toward his friend. "Anthony! Anthony! Are you okay?"

Anthony's tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. His lips parted and formed the word, "yeah," the voice accompanying soft and hoarse. His eyelids stung, so he closed them. Then squinted. The hand holding his wrist released it, and Chad came into view beside John. Wide eyed, gaping mouthed, and covered in sweat.

"Wah... ter," Anthony croaked. His two companions scrambled to their bags. John returned with a metal canteen. He unscrewed the cap and drew the mouth of the flask to Anthony's lips. Water trickled down his throat. He gagged.

"Sh**!" John pulled the canteen away. He replaced the cap and tossed it aside. Chad skid to the dust beside Anthony. All three panting.

"What happened?" Anthony's voice raked his throat, and he coughed.

"F***!" Chad replied, shaking his head. "You were struck by lightening!"

"I was?"

"Yeah!"

Anthony's eyes stung again, and he blinked.

"Flea went to get the car," Chad continued, licking his lips and sitting back on his feet. "He tried to call an ambulance on his cell phone, but we're out of range."

"Flea," Anthony repeated.

Raising an eyebrow, Chad said, "Yeah, Flea."

A smile swept across Anthony's face. "Damn, I missed you guys."

John and Chad exchanged looks. Their faces brightened. Anthony glanced to the left and saw a dark SUV drive into the clearing. The driver's door swung open.

"How is he?" Flea cried out, rushing to his bandmates.

"I'm okay," Anthony replied. He smiled at the sight of his friend's navy plaid flannel. As Flea approached with open arms, Anthony noticed tears sparkling his cheeks.

Flea knelt at the singer's side and reached for him.

"Whoa!" Chad held a hand to Flea's chest. "He's covered in first and second degree burns. A hug would hurt him."

Furrowing his eyebrows, Flea nodded. "We gotta get him into the truck though."

"Just do it," Anthony grimaced. Flea took hold of his shoulders, and Chad grabbed his feet. Pain seared through Anthony's body. His muscles tensioned, and he squeezed his eyes shut. They carried him to the SUV. After John had opened the door to the back seat, Flea and Chad eased Anthony into the car. They laid him across the seat. John hopped into the hatchback. Flea raced to the driver's seat, Chad to the passenger's seat. All doors closed, and the SUV squealed into motion.

Silence reigned in the car. Heaving heavy breaths, Anthony looked to the ceiling. John peered over the seat, into Anthony's field of vision. He stared at the guitarist, at his weary eyes and frowning lips. He ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth. "Guys?" he said. Chad peaked out from behind the passenger's seat, and John leaned closer. "I've been thinking about the possibility that the label will drop us."

Chad shifted in his seat. John slowly nodded.

"What have you been thinking?" Flea called from the driver's seat.

"That I don't give a sh** if we get dropped." Anthony watched John's lips curve into a grin. "If Warner Brothers doesn't want us, f*** them. We'll find a way."

"That's right, Anthony!" Flea replied. He turned off the dusty mountain path, onto a state road.

Chad nodded with a smile. He turned around and sat back in his seat. John ducked out of view.

The SUV shot past trees and modest stucco homes. Its occupants sat in silence. A hand slipped off the steering wheel and reached for a control knob. And turned it.

"But now I'm stronger than yesterday  
Now it's nothing..."

Flea turned the knob.

"Hey, Flea?" Anthony called into the front seat. He took in a deep breath. "Can you put it back on Britney Spears?"

"Anthony, are you serious?"

"Please?"

Shrugging, Flea turned back the dial.

"I'm stronger -  
Than I ever thought that I could be, baby..."

Anthony glanced up at John's confused stare. "What?"

THE END


End file.
